


The Great Hunt

by Nagem



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Daedric Princes, Elder Scrolls Lore, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Skyrimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5427704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagem/pseuds/Nagem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his sister is seemingly arrested by the Thalmor for illegally worshiping Talos, John Watson packs up everything he owns and leaves Solitude. With the help of a spellsword named Sherlock Holmes, John discovers the truth about his sister’s imprisonment and an ingrained family secret that will shake him down to his core.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A light breeze greeted John when he stepped outside. He stood by the door for a moment, hands on his hips, looking on. The city was just starting to wake up. Merchants were emerging from their houses. Children running out in the streets, well rested from the night before. John watched two girls with a fond smile and shook his head. Lifting a hand to scrub at his hair, John went down the steps and turned the corner around his house. He reached over and opened the short wooden gate, slipping inside Harry's small garden. "Blue mountain flowers," she said. "I'm running low on healing potions!" John crouched and began to pick the flowers out of the patch, setting the ingredients beside him in a pile.

It was only him and Harry now. The change was different, but John didn't mind. He liked Harry and appreciated her company.

When he was twelve, his mother died. Harry and he came home after a day of exploring to find their mother dead at the table, slumped over, a bottle of mead on the floor. Harry told John she had found a poison recipe stuffed in a book next to the fireplace. John never knew why she had decided to take her own life, and his father refused to mention it. It felt as if he were holding something back, a secret, the truth, but he said nothing. The loss really shook his father, and he was never the same after that. They remained in Dragon Bridge, getting by the best they could, until the uprising started.

Ulfric Stormcloak killed High King Torygg in a duel, and years of built-up tension were released. John's father went off to fight for the Revolution, for Ulfric and many others' cause, like a true Nord. John and Harry sent him off with heartfelt goodbyes, and they were kept in the dark for weeks, hearing rumors about dragons and what really happened to the High King.

"Torn apart, did you hear?"

"By Ulfric's _voice_."

Months later, John received a letter.

_It's with our deepest regrets to inform you, Watson, that your father, along with the majority of his regiment, went missing on the 12th of Sun's Dawn. He is presumed deceased. We would like to thank him and the rest of his comrades on their support to the uprising._

_Galmar Stone-Fist_

Unable to stay in their quiet home for much longer, they moved from Dragon Bridge to Solitude. Harry opened up her own apothecary shop, after watching and learning from their mother. John, now twenty-seven, helped Harry around the shop and poked around the capital for meager jobs.

Being in Solitude was an experience. The atmosphere was lovely, and the tall walls around the stronghold brought an added sense of security. And ever since the threat of dragons was rising, that was all people talked about nowadays.

"Did you hear about Helgen? Terrible business."

"No walls. It's their own fault."

"Dragons won't come near the capital, though. They'll cower in fear of the Empire!"

The crimson red banner of the Imperial Legion was supposed to bring comfort to the people of Solitude, but to John and Harry, even to their parents when they were alive, it did not. It brought terror and unnecessary compromises.

While his father was not a native of Skyrim, he was still a Nord. He was born and raised in Solstheim, in Skaal village. John didn't know much about the customs of the Skaal, but when he asked his father, he would say the All-Maker was responsible for everything. He often quoted one of the elders he was friends with from the Village: "You are an outsider, and I don't know if I can make you understand. I will try. The All-Maker is the maker of all things, and it is from the All-Maker that life flows like a great river. As all rivers must return to the sea, so all life returns, in time, to the All-Maker. I know our ways must seem strange to you, but the nine gods of the Empire are equally strange to us."

Still, despite the condescending attitude he was raised around, when John's father traveled to Skyrim and caught the eye of a young Nord woman, he was able to open his mind and set aside the differences. At the very center, they were both Nords, and that was that. It didn't matter that their Chief God was a dragon or that there were many temples for many gods and many of them looked exactly the same. John's father accepted his mother for who she was, and she did the same in return. She accepted the strange customs of the Skaal with open arms. "Perhaps a bit too willingly," John remembered his father saying, laughing afterwards. John didn't understand what he had meant by that, but he was a boy of four, and his mother had given his father a stern look afterwards.

As time passed and his parents grew older, John found his father losing touch with his Skaal roots and accepting his mother's Gods fully. He prayed to Akatosh, to Julianos, and to Talos, and all the Divines in between, rather than thanking the All-Maker. Seeing his father in town, no one could tell he was originally from Skaal village. The hunk of Stalhrim around his neck gave him away, though, but most didn't approach him and yank the chain around his neck. That was a dangerous action, and people knew better.

The Watsons loved their faith, and during the evening, they prayed, in fear, to Talos. That was life under the White-Gold Concordat. With the Empire in power, worshipping Talos was not permitted. The Temple of Divines even struck their Shrine to Talos. When the uprising began, and there were calls for help with the rebellion, it wasn't a surprise to John when his father pledged his service to the Revolution. He was a Nord, after all, and even if not of Skyrim, he still knew that restricting religious freedom was wrong.

But his mother had committed suicide, no reason was discovered, and his father had gone missing, half of his regiment slain. Sometimes a rebellion shattered a family. The loss of his parents made John's skin crawl. Harry stayed strong. She always stayed strong.

John stood and let out a huff, wiping his brow. His amulet slipped from out of his shirt, the symbol of Talos hanging in front of his chest. Shaking his head, John quickly shoved the talisman away. He looked around for a moment and took a deep breath, grabbing the stack of blue mountain flowers. He went back around to the front, the Bard's college seeming to be awake now, the sounds of flutes and drums resonating down the street. Simple, relaxing. Solitude was nice, at times.

The small bell above the door chimed as John walked in. Harry was behind the counter, tying an apron around her waist. She glanced at John and shook her head, quickly walking over and taking the flowers. "Did you go sightseeing or something?" John breathed out and gave his sister a look. He shook his head, too, and moved to the front counter, tapping his fingers against the surface.

"You still have a quarter of an hour before you open." John furrowed his brow and cocked his head. He reached over and grabbed a piece of parchment that wasn't there the day before. Pursing his lips, John studied the paper. On it was a warning for the citizens of Solitude—Talos worshippers were not allowed. John looked over his shoulder and stared at Harry. "When did you get this?"

Harry lifted her head from her alchemy lab, busy with crushing the flowers. "Huh?" John waved the notice. She scrunched up her nose and shrugged. "Oh, that? It's nothing. Everybody got them yesterday, I heard."

"Why?"

"Why does the Legion do any—?"

"—Harry, if you get caught—"

"—John, hush." Harry lifted her head and gave her brother a hard look. "I will not get caught. Everything is fine." Brother and sister stood there, each staring at the other, testing. Harry looked away first, concentrating on her crushing.

John set the paper down, behind the counter. "What about Mrs. Abernathy? She's a bit of a gossip."

"Oh, she stopped coming after I told her off." Harry smiled and sped up her crushing. "Doesn't respect me anyway. Tells me I'm not old enough to spread the word of Talos. Wasn't an apprentice to anyone or, or, schooled." Harry stopped and raised her head, laughing. "Ridiculous."

John paused and turned his head, staring at Harry. He didn't like the sound of that. He bit his lip and took a step towards her. "Mrs. Abernathy is a bitter old woman, Harry. Are you sure she wouldn't spill?"

Harry opened her mouth to speak, but froze. She glanced at John and pursed her lips. She returned to her flowers. "Of course not. Besides, she'd have to give herself away. And she doesn't have any proof."

"All the proof she needs is an amulet, Harry."

John jumped when Harry dropped the mortar and whipped around, facing him. She held out her hand, pointing the pestle at him accusingly. "John, I said hush." Harry held her position for a minute before dropping her hand. "I won't get caught," she said quietly, fingers tapping against the tool.

He didn't want to pester Harry any further, knowing he had already crossed a line. John nodded and walked over, lifting a hand to cup her face. He kissed her forehead. "Okay." John rubbed her cheek and smiled. "I'll be in town. Send someone if you need me."

Harry shoved at his shoulder, smiling. "Yes, of course." She turned away from him and picked up her mortar. "Bring your sword."

John was already on his way to his room upstairs, grabbing the scabbard with his steel sword. Lightweight, one-handed, John loved his sword. He had it for years, and it never failed him. John stepped out of the room and gave Harry a smile. "Read my mind." He tapped his weapon and moved out of the building. "Be safe."

"You too."

John didn't know where he was going. He just wanted to taste the fresh air. The sun was warm on his skin as it started to rise. He decided to walk down to The Winking Skeever. Have a drink or two. See if there was anything going on. That might contradict his original intentions of stepping out, but it was fine. Harry didn't need him hanging around the shop. He didn't understand a lick of alchemy, and he would just be crowding her. Yes, she was fine.

John was still worried, though. No, not about the shop. About the meetings. Harry had organized a one-time thing a few weeks ago. Members of Solitude were welcome to meet at the apothecary, in one of the basement rooms, and pray, to Talos, of course. Harry had told John she just wanted to do it once, to see if anybody would actually show up, and... they did. Elves, Nords, Bretons, many showed up. Everything went smoothly. No trouble came up, which was surprising. Harry had expressed her concern over the wrong people finding out, but nothing of the sort happened. Then this thing that was supposed to be a one-time deal, suddenly turned into a weekly, and then an every other day thing. Harry even managed to have customers in her shop during the work day, who weren't customers at all, but random commoners who would whisper to her when she was crouched behind the counter. "Talos guide you," they'd say, and when she'd lift her head and look on them, they'd smile and leave. More people were becoming aware of what Harry was doing, and it scared John senseless. Harry would always tell him that it was so popular because it was new, and after a few weeks, it'd die down. It did not, and with the Stormcloak Rebellion growing, it only seemed to grow along with it, even in Solitude, even right under the Imperial Legion's nose.

John didn't like it. This was a huge risk, but Harry often reminded him that she could make her own decisions. "I'm four minutes older than you, remember?" Then she'd ruffle John's hair, because in that moment, those minutes equaled years of wisdom he didn't have. Apparently.

It was still early, and only the true beggars and drunks were scattered about The Winking Skeever. The tavern was better than most of the ones John had been in, but it was a tavern all the same—dirty, smelly, and full of gossips and gamblers. John didn't mind the gossips that much. He occasionally scored a job from one, and extra coin was always good. Gamblers made him uneasy, just because of the fact John could easily slip in with the crowd, and all of the gold he had brought with him that day would end up in someone else's pockets. Not today.

He sat himself at the bar and requested an ale. As he drank, John let himself grow quiet and listened.

During his time, John discovered three things. One, Ulfric Stormcloak was set to be executed at Helgen. Two, a dragon conveniently swooped in and burnt the town to the ground. Three, the Dragonborn was here.

John knew of being Dragonborn, but he needed to see it to believe it. Like the men discussing this, they seemed skeptical as well.

"Absorbing a dragon soul? I don't believe it."

"Aye, but it's true."

"It's just a legend!"

"Dragons were thought to be legends, dead and gone, too. Tell that to the people of Helgen."

The idea of a dragon swooping down and breathing fire upon a town was terrifying. John thought of Dragon Bridge, of the irony, and drank. He couldn't even imagine fighting one. He hoped that day never came. He'd rather face a bear, a pack of wolves, hell, a giant, any day. John drank some more. Nords prayed to Akatosh, the deity depicted as a dragon, and now they were too scared to leave their homes because of the threat of a winged beast. The world was cruel.

The men at the bar continued to chat at the absurdity of dragons and the Dragonborn, while John polished off his ale. He pushed the empty bottle away, catching the eye of the barkeep. "Anything in?"

"Heard there was a dragon needing to be taken down," the old Nord replied, taking the bottle and sticking it underneath the counter.

John laughed, sliding off his barstool. He patted the countertop and shook his head. "I think I'll pass."

The barkeep hummed, wiping down the counter with a dirty rag. "Some poor idiot will think they're brave enough to take it down. Don't worry." John nodded at that and turned his head to scan the growing crowd. The Nord cleared his throat, then, and leaned forward. John turned towards him and met him halfway. "I have a friend, and he tells me there's been some suspicious activity in the woods near his house. He lives a bit out from Dragon Bridge, yeah? Sort of a recluse, only comes out when he needs to."

Narrowing his eyes, John tilted his head. "What's this suspicious activity?"

"Says there's an increase in wolves. They're acting strange. More of them, behavior's odd." The barkeep shrugged. "Might be worth looking into."

Suspicious wolves did not seem interesting at all. John attempted to consider, picking at a spot on the counter before taking a step back. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Wolves, you say? Are they barking a bit too loud? Howling more?" John laughed. "Maybe your friend should get more fresh air. The woods are full of wolves."

He shrugged again and returned to his cleaning. "He's lived out there for years. Knows the wildlife. That's all I'm saying."

John shook his head and turned away. He waved a hand back and bid him farewell, walking out of the inn. The sod had probably been cooped up by himself too long. Wolves were wolves. Not worth John's time. If he were desperate for coin, it'd be another story.

The sun was shining brighter than before, and John had to squint as he walked through the streets. Better than the cold that frequented the mountains, though. He wouldn't know how to handle that. John crossed his arms over his chest, his sword hitting his leg as he walked. The sound was familiar, and he wondered what it would be like to walk with a suit of armor on. John never had the opportunity to don some steel. The only combat he experienced was with a few deer and wolves. He had been in a scuffle with an Argonian before, but that ended quickly when John had given him a slash on his tail. Other than that, he was inexperienced. He practiced when he could, with the dummy in the basement, and he imagined when his first real battle occurred, he'd be ready.

It had been a few hours. Harry might need his help, John thought, as he turned onto their street. He had nothing better to do. Maybe she'd find the talk of dragons terrifying and wolves amusing, too. Once he reached the building, John paused at the front door. There were scratches on the lock, as if a dagger had scrapped against it. Had a thief come in? Was Harry okay? Without any hesitation, John opened the door and marched in, drawing his sword and bracing himself.

"Harry?"

The shop was empty, and it was a mess. Ingredients on the shelves were scattered along the floor. Books, papers, were thrown haphazardly on the counter. It looked like the place was thoroughly searched, but what for? And where was Harry? John carefully walked further in, tightening his hold on his sword. Ransacked, this place was ransacked. That was the only way John could describe it. Why? Harry didn't have any real enemies. They were generally well liked in the city. They didn't tread on any toes or ruffle any feathers. Maybe it was a random thief, hoping to steal enough to scrap up a few coin. Where was Harry, though? Hiding?

John slowly lowered his sword as he checked the basement first. Unlike the shop, it still looked relatively clean. To be fair, there wasn't much down here to go rifling through in the first place. Just a few benches, chairs, a podium. John's practice dummies were still in the corner, unmoved and untouched. No sign of Harry. He went upstairs, then, poking in Harry's room first. This was searched through, too. The bed covers were thrown aside, and the mattress was askew. Was someone looking underneath it? What could Harry have hidden underneath the mattress? John's stomach sunk. Oh no… He turned, noticing how her bedside table and dresser were open, the clothes picked through, probably moved aside for the search. This could have been a thief, or it could have been someone else. As John traveled down the hall to his room, he hoped it was the former.

Like Harry's room, John's covers were thrown back, mattress shifted from where it had been lifted and searched under. Nothing of import was in here, though. Everything of significance was kept on John's person, in the event of disaster striking. John concluded that Harry was no longer in the shop and reluctantly sheathed his sword. He stepped down the stairs with a grimace. At the foot of them, a piece of paper caught his eye. John kicked aside Harry's mortar and crouched, picking up the paper. His eyes slowly widened, the dots that were forming in John's head finally connecting. The amulet of Talos around his neck suddenly felt heavy. Very heavy.

Talos worshippers were not allowed in Solitude—a warning from the Thalmor.

They must have found out. That was why the entire shop had been turned upside down. Someone blabbed about Harry's godforsaken secret meetings, and they came snooping. Those damned Thalmor, a group of Altmer who helped police and uphold the White-Gold Concordat. They falsely accused Nords who seemed like a threat, tossing an amulet of Talos into their house, which were the grounds for an arrest. Nothing more—just an amulet was enough. While Harry was, indeed, leading the meetings, it would have been difficult to prove. Sometimes words and rumors were not enough. They raised suspicions, and an innocent walkthrough of a residence could end badly if an amulet was found.

"That's not mine!"

"I don't know how that got there!"

"I've never worshipped Talos in my life!"

John had heard them all, the tragic stories of families being ripped apart by the Thalmor's accusations and so-called "evidence", but nothing could stop the inevitable. That was what happened to Harry. She'd been taken away. John couldn't protect her. He wasn't here. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He crumpled up the parchment in his hand and tossed it to the floor. They must know Harry had a brother, or at least someone else living in the house. There were two bedrooms, both slept in, both containing clothes. They could be watching the house. Oh, Gods, they _know_. John stood in the middle of the shop, frozen for a second. This wasn't safe, staying in the building. They could have it surrounded—as soon as he stepped out, they'd get him. Not without a fight.

Harry had supplies he could take. Potions, ingredients, gold, just enough so he could leave. She would have wanted that. She'd want John to get out of the city, and go far away. John would find her. He'd find Harry, rescue her… somehow, and then they'd both leave. Go someplace safe, where ever that was.

John went around the counter and crouched, pushing aside empty vials and bundles of flowers, and snatched her coin purse. He peered inside and estimated that there were about a hundred septims. Maybe a bit less. He'd managed. He'd be fine. John reached over and grabbed an empty satchel, starting to throw whatever he could find into it. Blue mountain flowers, health and stamina potions, a few apples, some linen wraps, a small steel dagger, a jar with a single lightning bug in it. Why did Harry have this? Into the bag it went. When it became as full as it could be, John buckled up the bag and looped it around him, the strap digging into his neck. Uncomfortable, but it'll remind John what he had to do.

Slowly standing, John lowered his hand and touched the hilt of his sword. It had gotten dark while he had packed, and he knew his risk of getting caught as he stepped outside the door had grown. The Thalmor would want to take him alive, but John wasn't going down without a fight. He had no armor, though, only the thin tunic and trousers he usually wore, and a simple poke with a dagger in the right place could silence him. That couldn't happen. John had to be careful.

He went down to the basement and slipped out of the door there. John shut the door behind him and held his breath for a moment, listening. Nothing. He pressed his lips together and walked up the small set of stairs, looking around every which way. The streets of Solitude were vacant, and the only sounds he heard were the occasional bark from a dog and the yammer of a beggar on the corner. Nobody was coming after him. John seemed to be in the clear, at least for now. They could visit in the morning. That was a possibility. No, returning to the shop wasn't safe. John had already decided. He was leaving.

It wasn't unusual for people to come in and out of Solitude at all hours of the day. It was the capital after all, and a guard was posted on the top of the gate. Anything suspicious would be reported, but John didn't look suspicious, or at least he hoped. He was just a traveler leaving for an early start on his trip. Yes, that was what he was doing.

Once out of the large gate, John took a breath of fresh air. It felt a bit freeing to be gone from those walls. John had always loved it when a job he took required him to leave the high walls of Solitude. Nothing beat the open space. There was more room to run, more room to jump around and shout. John almost broke out into a sprint, but he decided against it. He needed to save his stamina for Harry. The Thalmor Embassy. She would have been taken there. They took all Talos worshippers there, where they'd be subjected to endless questioning and sometimes torture. Ratting out other people was common, but Harry was strong. She had always been strong. She could handle whatever those ruddy elves threw at her.

He could go there tonight. It was just an hour's walk from Solitude. John could make his way into the Embassy, scour around for Harry, and then break her out. It seemed like a solid plan. Their defenses wouldn't be as high in the nighttime, and only an idiot would plan on sneaking into the Embassy… John was, obviously, an idiot. He stopped in his tracks and turned his head, looking over at the mountains that lay before him. The Embassy was nestled in those mountains, covered in snow—something John was definitely not used to. He looked down, frowning at the thin clothes he wore. He couldn't brave the mountains in this. A wanderer would find him, frozen to the path with his arms wrapped around himself. What a way to go out. No, he had to plan this better. Get some armor, _something_ to protect him. John had a sword, but that wasn't enough for the dangers out in the woods, the mountains. He fought wolves and bears before, but trolls, saber cats, giant spiders, and even dragons? Only in his dreams.

Maybe it was the sudden feeling of nostalgia or just the want of being somewhere familiar, but John remembered Dragon Bridge wasn't far from here. About a three hour walk, and there would be no mountains to pass. He could spend the night in the inn, get a few hours' rest, and then head out in the morning. Besides all inns were the same: the people in charge loved to gossip.

John attributed it to the silence and the chill of the night, but Dragon Bridge came quicker than he thought. He stopped in the middle of town and looked on. John spotted the bridge, which covered the Karth River, and at the peak of an archway was the infamous dragon's head statue. It still gave John goose bumps whenever he saw it. When he was a child, he would stand on his porch and spend hours staring at the marvelous thing. Back then, John didn't know any better and thought the dragons were long gone. They were only alive in stories and songs. But now, he knew different. Stories and songs were still enough for him.

Four Shields Tavern was up the road, so John started his trek, keeping his pace steady. He didn't want anybody to peak out their windows and find a strange Nord running across town. It was nearing one in the morning, though. Everybody should be asleep. John should be asleep, back in his bed in Solitude. The lumpy cots at the inn would have to do.

Inside, the inn was occupied by a couple patrons. They were minding their own business, pushed off into their corners and drinking from a tankard. John heard some small chatter amongst them as he walked past, but he couldn't make out anything. There could be a slight chance he would be recognized here. The last time John had been in Dragon Bridge was a few months ago. The letter carrying their father's fate came, and there was no use hanging around any longer. Harry and John went to Solitude. There might be a few people in town who could recognize his face, but those people would be in their houses, tucked away for the night. John was planning to leave in the morning. No lingering, no taking chances.

The innkeeper was grouchy and growled at John a few times when he requested a room. "Ten gold," the old Nord grumbled, tapping the counter. John slipped out his coin purse from his bag and counted out the ten pieces. He dumped them on the countertop and watched the Nord sweep them off with a single wave of his hand. "On your left," he huffed out, then, jerking his head in that general direction. John slowly turned and left the innkeeper's presence, hanging his head low as he marched to his room. He shut the door behind him and looked around the small room, a frown growing on his face.

The bed cot did, indeed, look lumpy, and the blanket looked scratchy. The room did have a nightstand next to the bed and a small table off to the side. That was a plus… Maybe. "Let's make this work," John muttered darkly, pulling the bag off and setting it on the table. The piece of furniture immediately wobbled, making his bag slide to the right. John stared ahead at the wall and shook his head. He undid the scabbard around his waist and dropped that on the table again, causing more wobbling and sliding. John didn't care. He was tired.

He sighed once he collapsed on the bed. John laid there for a moment, above the covers, and stared at the ceiling. Outside his room, John could hear more people talking, but of what, he didn't know. Just gibberish. He could hear bottles and tankards being slammed down onto tabletops. He even heard the sound of a deck of cards being shuffled. Gamblers were in every city, he supposed. John turned over in bed, reaching behind him to pull the ratty blanket over him. He stuffed his face into the pillow and thought about how this could be happening to him. Harry was trying her luck every day she continued those blasted meetings, but she never stopped. John never stopped her either. He would scold her and try to reason with her, though that was the extent. Harry had her own mind, her own thoughts, and she figured she was doing the right thing. There was nothing wrong with worshipping Talos, and people needed to know that. Nobody should be punished for worshipping whoever they wanted. Their father knew that, and he even fought for that right. But he was dead now, and Harry was probably on her way to the same end.

John groaned into his pillow and covered his head with the blanket. In the morning, he thought. He'd deal with it in the morning.

*

For something that was so monumental in John's life right now, he was surprised nobody was talking about Harry's disappearance.

He already had his bag over his shoulder and his sword securely attached to his hip when he left his room in the morning. John found an empty table off from the individuals already in and sat down. He glanced around for a moment, eyeing the man seated at the table next to him. He had a book open in front of him and seemed entirely focused on it. John couldn't tell what he looked like; the hood of his robes was obscuring his features. Overall, there was nothing out of the ordinary. No special attention was on John. The only talk he heard was about the Dragonborn and what happened at Helgen. Gods, it had been months and people were still talking about it. They would be talking about it for years to come, John imagined.

John opened up his bag and peered inside, biting his lip for a second. He didn't want to spend any more coin than he had to. Reluctantly, John pulled out one of his apples and placed it on the table. He, then, took out his dagger and turned to fully face the table. Apple in one hand and the dagger in his other, John worked on cutting the apple into slices and eating them. Had to be careful… One slip could result in a nasty…

"John? John Watson?"

He froze, tightening his hold on the apple. John slowly lifted up his head and looked over, seeing a Nord approach him. Portly with brown hair, the face seemed familiar, and then it came to John, just as the Nord sat across from him. "Mike? Is that you?"

Mike laughed as he nodded. "Yeah, it is! Fancy seeing you here, John. What have you been up to? Last I saw you was after your—"

"—yeah, I know. Harry and I needed a… change of scenery." Mike had been one of the people he had told about his dad, but that didn't mean he wanted Mike to go talking about it.

"I understand. Staying here wouldn't have done you two any good." Mike looked around, brows furrowing. "Where is Harry? She's not with you?"

John pursed his lips and lowered his gaze, sticking his dagger into the apple. "Ah, no, she's not. She's…" he trailed off. Should he tell Mike? No, no, of course not. "She's back in Solitude. Had to mind the shop." John looked across at him, putting on a smile. "Bit of a workaholic. Harry."

Mike didn't seem to notice the lie, and he nodded in agreement. "I remember her always trailing after your mother, nose in one of those alchemy books. Couldn't understand any of that rubbish."

"Oh, yeah. She's gotten quite good. Gets a lot of business." John lifted a slice of fruit to his lips. "Impressive, actually." He bit into the apple. Now, she was gone. Holed up in a cell with a damned Altmer questioning her.

"Well, if I'm ever in the capital, I'll pay her a visit. I just stopped by to get some things from the innkeep. The wife's with child, did you know? Due any day now." John raised his eyebrows, and Mike chuckled. "I know. I'm going to a father."

John shook his head. "Well, don't let me keep you." He gestured with his knife. "Best of luck, Mike. It was good seeing you." He stuck the dagger into the apple again.

"You, too, Watson. Don't be a stranger! Stop by more often. I'm sure there are others wanting to catch up."

Pressing his lips together, John tried to hide his grimace as he nodded. He held his smile until Mike stood from the table and moved to the innkeeper. John lowered his head and roughly cut a bit off his apple. The last thing he needed was to catch up with the people he knew from his childhood. He would have to lie again and again and again, and John was never fond of lying. He wasn't very good at it. He was surprised Mike believed him, to be honest.

John raised his head, bringing a piece of apple to his lips, and froze again. Seated in front of him was another man, and he believed it to be the same person who was at the table next to him. He stared at John, blue eyes narrowed in concentration. The hood he wore went down to the middle of his forehead, but John could still see some dark curls poking out. They sat there for a few seconds, silence creeping in, and John slowly lowered the apple slice from his mouth. "Er, hello?" He received no response, and that only heightened his nerves. John loosely gestured with the piece of fruit. "Can I help you?"

Finally, the man breathed in and cocked his head to the side. "I think you need to be answering that question," he said, the voice coming out deeper than John imagined. "Can _I_ help you?"

John slowly narrowed his eyes and bit into the apple slice, snapping it in two. "What can you help me with?" What was this man doing pestering him? He wasn't significant, didn't seem suspicious or anything. Why come to him?

"Your friend," he started, "wanted to know about Harry, your sister, yes? And you lied. There has to be a reason why."

"I lied?" John felt foolish saying that, but there wasn't really anything he could do. He wasn't going to sit here and tell this stranger his predicament. "I don't know what you mean."

He sighed, rolling his eyes. "You grew up here. Why else would your friend there mention other people wanting to catch up? Something happened to your father, which caused you and your sister to leave Dragon Bridge and move to Solitude. The phrasing of the comment made it seem as if a major event in your life took place, and that caused the relocation. A death, a marriage, the prospect of having a family—all of these might constitute a move, but you mentioned your mother with no problem. She's out of your life, too, because you said only you and Harry had moved, and you seem like a man who is big on family, so why would you leave your mother behind? She's dead, then, and your sister was the one to grab up the pieces she left behind. But that's not why you left Dragon Bridge. You didn't mention having any other family back in Solitude—no children, no wife—so packing up and leaving wasn't due to a marriage or a pregnant wife. No, it was your father's death. You were close to him, compared to your relationship with your mother." He waved his hand. "Regardless, your sister, no matter what you said, isn't in Solitude. She's in trouble, in danger, and you know it. You don't want anybody else to know, because you believe this is your duty. You have to be the one to save her. Maybe if you had been in the right place at the right time, she would be safe."

John didn't know how to react. He sat there, staring at this man who had told John his own life story and even came to the conclusion that Harry was in trouble. It was amazing, remarkable, impressive. He didn't know how to describe it. "How did you know she's in trouble?" he asked quietly.

The man smiled. "I saw you last night, well, early this morning. Stumbling into this inn like you were on a mission. Not to mention you woke up just before the town started to get busy. Whatever happened to your sister happened last night, you left Solitude as soon as you could, and spent the night here." He scanned John. "And now… after you finish that apple, you'll be on your way again."

"I'm John," he found himself saying, waving the other half of his apple slice. He ate it and shook his head. "That was… amazing."

John received another smile and a chuckle. "That's not what people normally say."

"Well, what do they say?"

"Piss off."

John laughed himself, looking down at the rest of the apple in his hand. It had started to brown. He cut into it again. "I was about to tell you that. In the beginning."

"No, you weren't. Tell me about Harry, John."

John didn't want his face to be as open and inviting as it probably looked right now, but there was no stopping it. "Harry…" He roughly swallowed and took a deep breath. "I think she was taken by the Thalmor." And here John was, spilling everything he knew, everything he had gathered and found to this stranger in the inn. He wouldn't even tell Mike, someone he knew ever since he was a child. But there was something about this man. John trusted him, and he didn't know why. Besides, he looked genuinely interested and eager to help. He knew if he had told Mike he would have only received a skeptical look and the advice of going to the Jarl. John was not going to do that.

"And those bloody elves are probably torturing her right now, and I'm sitting here, doing nothing." The man raised his eyebrows at John, possibly at the foul mention of the Altmer, and John's face paled. He stared at him again, more thoroughly this time, and there was no mistaken the elongated features of his face. "Oh, Gods, please don't tell me—"

"—no, no." His hands lifted, and the hood was pushed back, revealing a mess of curly dark hair and a pair of short ears. He laughed at John's expression. "There's some elf on my mother's side, but." He shrugged.

John blinked. "So, you're a—"

"—Breton, yes."

"I would have guessed an Imperial. If it wasn't for the—"

"—elfish features? Tad bit racist, don't you think?" he teased, and John rolled his eyes. The Breton stood, fixing the sleeves of his robes as he looked at John. "Name's Sherlock. In about ten minutes, I'll be at the end of town."

John stood himself, knitting his brows together. "You're serious, then? You want to help me?"

"Can I help you?" Sherlock asked, lowering his hands. He stood there silently, waiting for John's answer. John wasn't one to disappoint.

"Yes, of course." He nodded, frowning after a second. "I don't know exactly where I'm going. I was just going to barge in and slice off a couple heads."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curled, and he gave John an amused look. "Well, you're in luck. I have an enormous amount of knowledge, and I know where we're going. One question, though. How do you feel about fire?"

John crinkled his nose and shook his head. "Fire? What are you—?" Sherlock held out his hand, then, palm up, and, in the center, a small fireball was produced. It crackled in Sherlock's hold, and John laughed.

He would be traveling with a mage. Brilliant. Harry had absolutely nothing to worry about.


	2. Chapter 2

John's experience with magic was limited. He had never seen someone create fire in their palm, shoot lightning from their fingertips, or flick a finger and have someone completely freeze. He grew up hearing the stories, of course, of all manners of people going to the College of Winterhold, where they practiced and perfected the craft of magicka—Destruction, Restoration, Alteration, Conjuration, Illusion—you name it. Anyone was capable of using magicka. Some were born with an inclination towards it. Regardless, practice was the essential thing. That, and control.

Whenever Harry and he would run around in the woods outside the town, they would inevitably end up with scratches and bruises. Their parents had warned them not to stray too far from home, but they were kids, and kids never listened. Harry was the better one of the two at Restoration spells. She would grab John's arm and hold it close, giggling her head off as her fingertips glowed bright against his skin. In a matter of seconds, the scratch she concealed would be gone, and they would leap up and continue their adventure. Simple as that.

As John grew older, he attempted to cast a few Restoration spells of his own. Harry was a good teacher, and she'd be his practice dummy. "It's easier to heal someone else than yourself," she had explained once. They were in their house, in the cellar. John had his hands out, hovering them above Harry's cut arm. Her dagger lay beside them.

"Why's that?" John asked, wiggling his fingertips and watching the cut slowly disappear.

"Motivation, probably." Harry ran her thumb over the healed skin, smiling at the result. "Everyone wants to heal everyone else, and they forget to think about themselves first. You can't be an adept healer if you aren't taking care of yourself."

John had never wanted to cast ice shards or take control of a Draugr to do his bidding. He put all of his energy into healing, but he neglected to take care of himself in the process, it seemed. You have to take care of yourself first, Harry had said, and when John was curled up in his bed after learning the news of his father's death, hand to his chest, he found himself unable to do much more than warm himself from his head to his toes. His feelings, his heavy heart, still stayed. John had gone down to breakfast the next morning, and Harry was none the wiser.

Sherlock would be at the end of town in ten minutes. John was still in awe of the Breton, and at how much he seemed to want to help. He knew if he had hired a mercenary, they would all think John crazy. Not even good coin would help him, he guessed.

Dragon Bridge was quiet, and the air seemed thick. Hard to breathe. It'd dissipate as the day went on. It always did.

Adjusting the strap of his bag, John traveled to the edge of town. He had no idea what he and Sherlock were planning on doing. Marching on over to the Thalmor Embassy, bash open a few heads, and collect Harry? Seemed like a stupid plan, but it was better than sitting around and doing absolutely nothing.

The mage wasn't lying; Sherlock was standing off from the main road, arms dangling at his sides. He was looking up at the sky, squinting, and the hood of his robe was surprisingly staying in place. At John's arrival, Sherlock turned his head and raised his eyebrows. "Ready?" Sherlock had a small satchel across his chest, a dagger underneath that, and a quiver of arrows and a beautiful ebony bow on his back. John stopped in front of Sherlock and cocked his head.

"What, no staff?"

Sherlock's lips twitched, and he turned away, starting to walk. John hurried up and walked next to him. "I don't need one of those things. I have perfect control of my magicka. You have nothing to worry about."

They continued to walk, Sherlock kicking pebbles whenever possible. John crossed his arms over his chest and looked him over. "You said you knew exactly where we're going."

"Yes."

"Where is that?"

Sherlock lifted his head and glanced at John. He had an amused expression on his face. "Hmm, I did have a thought earlier. We can't exactly rescue your sister like this, can we?" John knitted his brows together and opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock waved his hand. "We're heading into the mountains. We'll be facing Gods know what. Spiders, bears, definitely those bloody elves, as you so poetically put it."

John narrowed his eyes and looked on ahead. "We need more supplies, too. I've only enough for, well, me." He turned his head and stared at Sherlock again. He looked well off, especially for someone who didn't seem to have a lot on them. Just that bow and a small bag.

"And armor." Sherlock laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Like I said, mountains, John. You'll freeze to death in that tunic."

"What about you? Those robes look thin, too."

Lowering his arms, Sherlock gave another flourish. "Don't worry about me. I have that covered. Now, as much as I regret telling you this, I have a friend who can get you a suit of armor. He's a blacksmith. Not the best, but he'll do."

John wet his lips and raised an eyebrow. He glanced over. "Why would you regret telling me that?" he asked. John stopped in his tracks, looking around for a moment. The path was familiar, and even in the daylight, John recognized the path as the one he took to arrive. He sighed and looked ahead, staring at the forest ahead of them. "We're going back to Solitude, aren't we?"

"Aha, you've figured it out." Sherlock sounded amused. John, definitely, was not. He continued to walk, despite John's stop, so John marched over to him, reaching out and grabbing Sherlock's arm. He yanked, grabbing more of the sleeve than of Sherlock. The mage looked at him, eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I can't go back there!" John pulled his hand away. "In case you've forgotten, I might not be safe if we go to the capital. You know, Thalmor Justiciars and all that?" Sherlock looked blankly at John, who sighed and angrily flailed an arm. "The whole reason why I'm with you right now?!"

Sherlock hesitated for only a second, before he dismissed John with a shake of his head. "Don't worry about that. If you act like you're innocent, then nobody will think you any different." He started walking again, lifting a hand to fix his sleeve.

John had an inkling Sherlock had a lot of experience with acting innocent. He followed Sherlock again. "Okay, sure. What else do I do? Walk around? Don't make eye contact?"

"Mm, I think you've got it down pat." He looked at John from the corner of his eye, smirking. John wanted to reach over and throttle him, but he only smiled.

They kept walking. Solitude was a couple hours away, and John and Sherlock were already off to a good start. Yes, Harry was absolutely in good hands.

*

When he left Solitude, John had made a promise not to return. Now, not even twenty-four hours later, John walked through the gates of the capital, but this time, Sherlock was by his side.

Sherlock took the lead once they were inside, gesturing for John to follow. "Come on. His shop is just down here." John hesitated, but ultimately followed Sherlock down the small slope and around the corner. If Sherlock noticed his reluctance, he didn't say anything. It seemed like he was also under the guise of acting innocent.

John crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his chin up, glancing towards the sky. It was a welcoming sight, and the warmth was pleasant. John feared it'd be a while before he could appreciate it again, knowing how cold and dreadful the mountains were.

"Your friend," John started, "have you known him long?"

"Yes, he's a very old friend." Sherlock looked over his shoulder, a smile playing on his lips. "I'm sure you've seen him around. He's been here a while."

John lowered his gaze and kicked at a rock. It skipped along the pavement. "I've only been in Solitude for a few months," he reminded Sherlock, but he was paid no mind. Sherlock had stopped outside a shop, hands behind his back. He looked expectantly at John. John blinked at him, but when Sherlock didn't move or say anything, he sighed and shook his head. "Thanks," he mumbled. John stretched out and wrapped his fingers around the doorknob.

"I won't be coming in with you. I have some business in the Blue Palace."

John let go of the knob and turned his head to stare. "What? The Blue—Sherlock." He faced Sherlock, tilting his head. "This is—"

"—this is important, too, John." Sherlock looked down at John, eyes wide, face open. "Trust me. I'll only be gone a few minutes, and when I'm back, you'll be finished, and we'll be off." He smiled, then, as if that made everything better, and spun around. "We'll be slaying dragons and burning Hagravens!"

John's response was a myriad of curses and insults thrown at Sherlock's retreating back. He shook his head and whipped around, throwing open the door and stepping inside. The door banged against the wall, a bit roughly, and bounced off. John caught it before it smashed into his arm. The man behind the counter raised his head at the commotion and gave John an incredulous look. John cleared his throat and carefully shut the door. "Hello."

"What will it be?"

"Um." John walked over to the front counter, placing his hands on the surface, patting softly. "Well, a suit of armor." He stared at the Nord, who laughed.

"Well, yeah. Figured as much." John smiled, too. "What sort of armor? Make? Material? You know."

John felt foolish. He shut his eyes and sighed. "Oh, sorry. Uh, steel. Please."

The Nord's eyes fell on the sword on John's hip and nodded. "Should have known. Alright, let me get you measured out, and I'll see what I can do." He gave John a smile, and it was filled with warmth. John didn't feel threatened or like he was about to get caught. He'd have an opportunity to relax. He had been on edge ever since they set foot in Solitude.

He was measured, and the blacksmith ducked into the back of the shop. "I think I might have something already," he said before he disappeared from John's line of sight. "Sometimes I have to make armor for the recruits. Bloody tiresome, but, hey. Business is business." He returned with the armor in his arms, his gait slow as he carried it to the counter. "Name's Lestrade, by the way."

Only pausing for a second, John nodded. "I'm John." He looked at the steel of armor in front of him and reached out a hand, pressing his palm against the breastplate. Sturdy, durable. It'll work. John pulled his hand back and looked across to Lestrade. "Will you be sad to see the war end, then?"

Lestrade laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Would I be a terrible person if I said yes?" John merely shrugged and laughed, as well. Lestrade pressed his lips together and tipped his head from side to side. "Ah, well. That's not what you're doing, is it?" He looked at John seriously, then.

There must be dozens of people who came through Lestrade's business, requesting armor to be made. The blacksmith spent hours on each set, only for it to be rendered useless with a single, lucky strike of a blade. John thought of his father. He didn't like to imagine the old Nord meeting a sticky end in the battle field. Maybe it was a good thing that he went missing. Although, if his father had died during a fight, there would at least be a body to soothe John's mind. He had nothing, so he was left with thoughts like these.

"No, that's not for me," John said simply. "I stayed here, minding my own." He took off his bag, his sword, and dragged the armor off the counter. He began to work it on. The steel felt heavy on his shoulders, but it also gave John security and a sense of strength. He was finally wearing some real armor. He just wished the circumstances were better.

Lestrade shrugged, reaching over and pushing the helmet across the counter. "That's fine, too. I would have joined the ranks, but then I took an arrow to the knee."

"What happened?" John picked up the helmet and held it in his hands. He looked down at it; the steel wings on either side of the helmet stared back at him. John ran his thumb along an edge.

The blacksmith gave John a sheepish look. "Well, I wasn't always in the capital, you know." Lestrade moved, leaning forward on his arms. John lowered the helmet, turning his attention from it and to Lestrade. "Lived in Whiterun. I was a part of the city guard. I was young and stupid and I thought I was going to have a big break one day." He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I had overheard some of my superiors talking. There was this off branch of the Thieves Guild, planning to hit the shops in the city that night. So, I went off and decided that I was going to save the day. Needless to say, I didn't save the day, one of their blasted archers found me, and I was out of work."

"Until my gracious brother swooped in and rescued you." John and Lestrade both raised their heads, spotting Sherlock at the door. He moved his hand and the door banged shut. While he was gone, Sherlock had exchanged his robes for a set of fur armor. He looked warm beneath the haphazardly placed pieces of gray, brown, and black fur. There was a piece that stretched across his shoulders that John wanted to run his fingers through.

Lestrade lifted a hand, pointing at Sherlock. "There was more to it than that," he protested, but Sherlock only sighed, rolling his eyes. He walked over to John, looking down at him. He spotted the helmet in his hands and wrinkled his nose.

"You are definitely not wearing that." Sherlock opened up his bag and fished out a handful of septims. He passed them over to Lestrade.

"Helmets could save you from a nasty blow to the head," Lestrade said, taking the coins from Sherlock and dumping them into his bag behind the counter.

Sherlock stood up straighter, taking the helmet from John's hands and setting it back on the counter. "John isn't going to war. He's going with me."

Lestrade huffed out a laugh. "That'll help me sleep at night." He placed his hands on the counter and looked between them. "Just go."

John had stood there, looking between Sherlock and Lestrade as they chatted. He was almost too distracted to notice that Sherlock had paid for his armor, until it had dawned on him, as Sherlock was dragging him out of the shop. "Hey, hey, wait," he said, swatting at Sherlock's hand. Sherlock stopped walking, but he didn't look pleased about it. "That was about a few hundred septims you just spent on me."

"Yeah."

He expected more of a reaction. John narrowed his eyes. "You don't mind?"

"Of course not. Now, come on." Sherlock grabbed John's shoulder again, steering him out of the shop and into the street. Before the door closed behind them, John heard Lestrade wish them luck.

"You'll need it!"

They started walking away from the shop. John stayed quiet and listened for a while, hearing the sounds his armor made, and how his sword was finally hitting something made of similar material, not cloth. Looking over at Sherlock and admiring the fur he wore, John knew that he was well prepared for the mountains. Steel could only do so much.

"What business did you have in the Blue Palace?" John asked, moving ahead of Sherlock to push open the gate. Sherlock slipped through and took the lead.

"Visiting my dear brother," Sherlock replied. "And getting better equipped." He patted his chest, referencing his change of clothes.

John moved over, walking alongside Sherlock once they were well away from Solitude's walls. "Does he work in the Palace?" Sherlock hummed in response. John should have known Sherlock was, indeed, well off. If he worked in the Palace, then he was close to Jarl Elisif. His suspicions were confirmed by Sherlock's next statement.

"Mycroft is the steward to Jarl Elisif." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, his nose wrinkling in disgust again.

"Isn't that a good thing?" John turned his head, looking up at Sherlock. "You never know when having someone in a position of power would be useful." Being the steward to the Jarl of Solitude definitely would have its advantages. Power, influence… knowledge. "Hang on." John reached out a hand, touching Sherlock's arm. "Did you ask him about my sister? Any arrests made recently? Any Talos worshippers?"

Sherlock glanced down at John's hand and shook his head. He looked back ahead. "No, I didn't. This is our job, hmm? Besides, I never ask him for anything. He'd think it strange if I suddenly inquire about recent arrests."

John pulled his hand back and frowned. "Oh, right. Of course." He sighed. "Stupid."

"It wasn't stupid," Sherlock said. "A bit thoughtless, maybe." He kept his eyes ahead, not daring to look at John. He would receive a glare if he did. "I didn't leave empty-handed." Sherlock reached down, pulling his bag around to open. He slipped out a pack of parchment and handed it to John. John took it and held it carefully. He glanced into Sherlock's bag, seeing a few books, potions, a smaller purse where John expected gold to be held, and a couple scattered ingredients.

John looked down at the parchment he was handed. "No staff…" he said quietly, glancing over at Sherlock. He saw Sherlock smile from the corner of his eye. John carefully unfolded the packet, and with each section he pulled, it was becoming quite clear that Sherlock had given him a map. It was detailed and color coded by each Hold. There was writing on some parts of the map, little notes about caves and forests.

He lowered it, staring at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. "Did you do all this?"

Sherlock tore his attention away from his bag and turned towards John, leaning in enough to study the map. "Some. Most of it was my mother." Sherlock returned to his sorting, moving aside a very battered book. "She used to be an explorer."

"Used to be? What does she do—?"

"—there." Sherlock leaned in again, pointing a finger at the map. "This is Solitude," he said. "The Embassy is there." Sherlock moved his finger slightly above Solitude and to the left. "Doesn't look far, but we have to go through the mountains." He pulled his hand back for a second, scanning the map. He gestured to the space separating the Embassy and Solitude. "Somewhere here, we can make camp. There should be a cave." Sherlock looked at John. "We can see what we're up against, make a plan, and then return tomorrow, assuming we make it tonight." He slipped the map from John's fingers and began to fold it. He stowed it away in his bag. "Are you ready?" Sherlock grinned. "Last chance to tell me to go away."

John couldn't even imagine telling Sherlock to leave. They hadn't done much of anything so far, but John already felt like he was leagues away from where he had been yesterday. He nodded. "Last chance for you to leave. Most would call me crazy. Say I was in league with a damned Daedric Prince."

Sherlock snapped his bag shut and breathed in. He narrowed his eyes and slowly turned on his heel. "Daedric Princes? That's a bit of a stretch, wouldn't you say?"

He laughed. "I don't care. I want nothing to do with Daedra or their Princes." Sherlock was quiet for a moment, any longer and John decided he was going to nudge him, but he snapped out of it with a clap of his hands.

"The mountains can be treacherous, John Watson. I hope you're prepared."

John hummed and crossed his arms over his chest. "If you just wiggle your fingers a bit, I think I'll be fine."

*

John had never been in the mountains, and he had only seen snow from a distance. He was sure that he hadn't ever experienced true cold. But right now, with Sherlock, all of that changed.

He let out a huff as he smashed his foot on the spider's back, yanking out his sword. John shut his eyes for a moment, just breathing. He slowly opened his eyes and looked down, shaking his sword. A few blood droplets fell against the snow. John raised his head, spying Sherlock a few yards away. His right arm was extended, palm out, a stream of fire striking his own spider. John straightened up and watched as the spider let out a cry and withered beneath the flames. Sherlock's face was calm, composed. It was... amazing.

Sherlock closed his fist and spun around, the snow crunching beneath his feet. He looked over at John and tipped his chin up, too. They stayed still for a second longer than perhaps necessary, and Sherlock turned away first. "Come on. We're almost there." He stalked away, and John jogged to keep up.

John sheathed his sword and shook his arms, trying to keep the warmth that possessed him after his fight. "This cave, did you discover it or your mother?" Sherlock glanced down at him and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked back ahead. "Come on. Shouldn't we get to know each other?"

He received a hum. John pursed his lips and shook his head. "So, I can spill my life story, but you won't tell me yours?" He lifted a hand and scratched his head. Snowflakes fell off.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said with a huff. "I am a Breton, and a mage, trained at the College of Winterhold. I like to catch things on fire and learn all I can." He lowered his hands and quirked an eyebrow. "Is that enough?"

John shook his head, sighing. "For now, I suppose." He looked ahead, squinting. "Sherlock." He reached out a hand and caught his elbow. Sherlock jerked a bit at the sudden grab, and he threw John a glare behind him. John lifted his other hand and pointed off to the right. "Is that the cave?" he asked, voice low. He didn't know why he was whispering. It wasn't like anyone was going to hear them. As far as John knew, it was only him and Sherlock in this stretch of mountains.

Sherlock followed John's arm and immediately perked up as he spotted the opening to the cave. He gave John a quick glance before smiling and darting over to it. John ran after him, holding onto the hilt of his sword. It wasn't entirely wise to go darting into a cave, no matter if Sherlock—or his mother, for that matter—had discovered it. Other people could have stopped by, made a home. Creatures could have moved in, setting up more than just a simple home.

"Hey," John murmured as he stepped into the cave. It was dark. He could barely see anything past his own hands. Where had Sherlock gone? How far did he go in? John's questions were answered when he bumped into Sherlock, who was standing still. The cave was quiet and damp. Water occasionally dripped down and landed on the ground. John moved around, standing beside Sherlock. "Wanna wiggle your fingers a bit?"

No snide comment came from Sherlock. He held up his hand, palm up, and a small ball of light appeared. Sherlock threw out his arm, then, the ball soaring through the cave. It landed somewhere in the middle and illuminated the cavern. John's suspicions proved to be just that—suspicions. There were no makeshift camp waiting for them, and animal nests were nowhere in sight. Sherlock knitted his brow and tilted his head to the side. He took a step forward, examining their surroundings. John did the same, going off in the other direction. The main cave had a branch off to the side, but that was about it. Compared to most caves, this one was small.

John went into the other room, not realizing that he was still gripping his sword. He flexed his fingers. This section was pitch-black, and John paused a quarter of the way in. He pursed his lips and tried his best to squint, staring further, but without Sherlock's candlelight, it was useless. He turned his head, ready to call for Sherlock to float on in here, just as a deep, putrid smell hit John's nostrils. John recoiled, lifting his arm and covering his nose. "Oh, Gods," he breathed out, resisting the urge to gag. The smell grew stronger, and John could hear movement. Whatever it was, it sounded like a person, though they were slow, their feet dragging across the scattered leaves that littered the floor.

"Sher—" John started to shout, but he was interrupted by a low groan. It shook John down to his bones. It was close, and John stumbled backwards. "Gods!"

A ball of light hurled through, hitting the opposite wall and sticking as it lit up the entire room. John turned his head and saw a Draugr walking towards him, mouth hanging open as he groaned, and its arm rose, axe in hand and ready to strike. John was quick; he withdrew his sword and swung it as hard as he could, knocking the blade against the Undead's neck. The head flew off its body, rolling across the floor. Its eyes stared at John, alight and blinking. He watched as the light slowly died and heard an arrow whizz past his ear. John whipped his head around. The Draugr's body had still been staggering towards John, though now there was an arrow sticking out of its chest. The axe fell from its hands, and the body soon followed.

John shook his sword and looked over at Sherlock, who stood off to the side, bow still raised. "Thanks."

Sherlock slowly lowered his bow and placed it on his back. "Don't mention it." He walked past John and towards the fallen Draugr. He stepped on the decaying body and reached down, yanking the arrow out and slipping it back into his quiver. Sherlock gave John a quick smile. "Nice swing."

He laughed. "Yeah. Well." John shrugged. He sheathed his sword and pushed himself off from the wall. With the light, John noticed this room was much like the main one, albeit smaller. More debris was on the floor compared to the first, though that was understandable. Most travelers probably kept to the main areas, rather than slink deeper into the unknown. He cleared his throat and turned back towards Sherlock, who was still standing by the downed Draugr and staring at John with narrowed eyes. John shrugged again. "I used to decapitate a lot of practice dummies. I've become a bit skilled." Probably not the wisest thing to say, but now Sherlock knew not to tread on his toes any, lest he end up like the Draugr.

Sherlock soon smiled at him before turning and walking into the central cavern. "I'll make sure to get on your good side, then." He worked on gathering up piles of leaves, pushing them towards the center of the room. John tried not to make an ungrateful comment. It might actually be more comfortable than the beds at that ratty inn. "Pick up some branches," Sherlock commented, plopping down on the makeshift bed. "I'll make a fire."

John was already halfway there, a few branches in his arms. He nodded and sped up his gathering, though he was certain that Sherlock didn't need that much material to make a fire. "You're already there," John started, glancing over at Sherlock. "My good side. Don't screw it up, or I swear to Talos—"

"—no need to throw threats around," Sherlock interrupted, waving his hand. "Though, I wouldn't be shouting Talos' name where anyone can hear it."

John dumped the branches and sticks a few feet away from their bed of leaves. He was sure Sherlock could control the fire to be contained on this single space, but the distance was a precaution. He looked over at Sherlock, where he was reclining back with the aid of one of his hands. Sherlock looked far too comfortable for those just to be ordinary leaves. He narrowed his eyes at him. "You don't believe?" he asked.

Sherlock only gave John a look before he turned his attention to the sticks. "It doesn't matter whether or not I believe. It's illegal. That's the whole reason we're doing this, yes? For Harry?" He gave his fingers an elaborate wave and fire twirled, igniting the sticks. "Maybe some stranger heard you making comments like that? Hm?" He didn't look at John, only continued to stroke the fire.

That made John pause. Could it have been his fault that Harry was taken in? Like Sherlock said, could he have been overheard speaking to Harry and let slip Talos' name? No, that couldn't be it. He was always careful. Always. John minded his words in public, and he made sure the amulet he wore around his neck was hidden away. He had an inkling Sherlock already knew what John's amulet was, but he didn't say anything. Maybe he will in the future, or maybe he won't. Sherlock was observant. John resisted the urge to tug at the chain as he looked down at Sherlock.

"No, that's not possible. And even if I thought that I was somehow responsible, I would have told you. Or you would have figured it out then. I'm not a good liar."

Sherlock dropped his hand, the fire crackling comfortably now. He eyed John and gave him a small smile. "I know."

John didn't know much about Destruction magic or the special qualities of these flames, but they must give off incredible warmth and very quickly. John's palms felt sweaty, and he cleared his throat. He turned away, pressing his lips together. "I think I'll scout on ahead. I'll come back after I get a good look around." He slipped his way towards the entrance, running his fingers through his hair.

"Expecting me to stay here?" Sherlock called.

"Yes. Hold down the fort." John stepped outside, the cold instantly hitting him. He wanted to duck down and run back into the cave, but he couldn't do that. The cave was suffocating right now. Something about that fire or something about Sherlock... Whatever it was, John felt on edge, so the snow he must embrace. He grumbled as he marched forward. The Embassy wasn't far from here, and the sun was beginning to set. Unlike Sherlock, he couldn't summon light in his palm. He had to be quick.

He couldn't imagine making this trip on his own. For starters, he would have dashed into the mountains in nothing but his tunic and trousers. The cold would have bitten his skin and caused him to be frozen to the ground. If Harry ever found out his fate, she would have surely laughed her head off. Tad bit embarrassing. John was no expert while it came to fights, either. He could manage himself, yes, but he imagined the Thalmor were highly skilled in combat, both physical and with their magicka. Being outnumbered was a high risk, and even though he just had Sherlock, two against them all was better than being alone.

Sherlock was a blessing in disguise, it seemed. John thanked Talos for that. There must have been a reason for that Breton to be sitting in that inn on that particular night. If Harry had been taken on a different night, John might not have made the plans that he did, or Sherlock might not have been present in the inn. There were a thousand different possibilities that could have occurred, and John was pleased he had the one he did.

Large walls were ahead of him by several yards, an archway with a gate settled off to the left. John paused in his tracks and carefully took in the sight. Beyond the walls laid two buildings. John couldn't tell much from where he stood, but he reasoned that the large building towards the back was the main base. He breathed in and picked up his pace, heading towards the walls. It was darker than before, so having a quick peek through the gates wouldn't announce his presence.

A small howl came from behind him. John's hand immediately flew to his sword, pulling it out as he turned on the spot. Wolves? A rabid dog? He could deal with both. John was surprised to see that whatever had barked wasn't what he thought at all. Well, not entirely.

It was a wolf, John could tell that, but unlike the wolves that inhabited the mountains, it was neither gray nor white. It was an inky black color, and it was surrounded by a purple mist. The wolf's legs seemed to stop at the beginning of its paws, as the fog was dense near there. It seemed to be floating as it approached John, and it looked up at him with friendly eyes. John slowly lowered his sword, tilting his head to the side. The wolf didn't look as if it was about to launch itself at John. It posed no threat to him. John slipped his sword back into its place and crouched, nose to nose. The wolf stayed still, eyeing John with the same curiosity he held. John reached out a hand and pressed his palm to the creature's muzzle. There was no warmth to the wolf. Only cold. Was it some sort of magic? The wolf didn't resemble anything from this world. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

A tree branch snapped. John jerked up his head, and he got to his feet. Again, he withdrew his sword and brandished it in the air. The wolf turned and stood at John's side, ready to face whatever came from those trees. And it was… Sherlock. He stepped out from the cover of the trees, his bow in his hands. Giving John a look, Sherlock slid the arrow back in his quiver and the bow soon followed. "Ah, I see you've found him."

Before John could reply, the wolf raced towards Sherlock, greeting him like an old friend. John only frowned as he put his sword away. It seemed Sherlock was speaking to the wolf. John walked over to Sherlock, shaking his head. "What's going on?"

Sherlock stood up straight after giving the wolf a good rub. He smiled down at the animal, held out his palm, and when it came into contact with the wolf's nose, it vanished. The only thing that remained was the purple mist, and it was slowly drifting away. John's eyes widened, and he lifted his head to meet Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock shrugged. "Did you really think I was going to sit in that cave and wait for you to come back?"

John narrowed his eyes. "What was that… thing?"

"Thing?" Sherlock frowned, and John rolled his eyes. He gestured with his hand, wanting Sherlock to get on with it. "My familiar. I call them Redbeard. It was too dangerous and risky to have a candlelight following me around, so Redbeard was the next option. Not that I mind, of course. I like summoning them. I'm never alone." Sherlock tipped his head to the side. With the way the moonlight shone, John noticed a fresh scratch on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock caught John's eye, and he shook his head. "It's fine. Just. Ran into a branch."

John wanted to laugh, but he knew Sherlock would retort that it wasn't his fault; it was the lack of light. He only smiled and walked up to him. John held up his hand and nodded his head. "Come on. Dip down a bit. I'll fix that."

Blue eyes flicked between John's hand and to his face. Sherlock knitted his brow. "Excuse me?"

"I know a few Restoration spells. Let me heal you."

Both surprise and amusement crossed Sherlock's face, eyebrows raised and a small smile on his own lips. "Oh," he said and tipped his head towards John's palm. "I can do it myself," he added softly.

John hovered his hand above the scratch, giving his fingers a small wiggle as the light slowly grew in his palm. "It's not a problem. Besides, I want to show you that I'm not completely useless." The blood evaporated from Sherlock's cheek, and the skin began to stitch back together. John wet his lips and fully covered the abrasion with his hand. Sherlock was cold, but he was warming up against John's fingers.

They met eyes, and Sherlock blinked. "I don't think you're useless." John kept quiet as he healed, lowering his hand when he was finished. Sherlock raised his own hand and touched his cheek, pulling it back to check for any blood.

"That's reassuring," John finally said, resting a hand on his sword. Sherlock looked back at him and stared expectantly, as if he was going to say something, do something. John didn't give him that chance. He cleared his throat and turned away. "Come on. The Embassy is close." He began to walk towards the walls again. Sherlock quickly caught up and walked alongside him.

As they made the remainder of the walk, the only sounds were the crunching of their boots against the snow. The air around them was tense, but John didn't dare try to slice it.

John peered through the gate first, keeping his hands away from the railings. He wasn't sure if there would be any sort of alarm fashioned to go off if they were touched. Sherlock stood behind him, tall enough to look over John's head.

His assumption had been right. The building in the back was the main hall. Many Altmer stood just outside the door, chatting and paying no mind to the two outside their gates. John could only guess the building to their left was a storage space, maybe the barracks for the Justiciars. If anything, their prisoners would be in the large building, somewhere secluded and away. John looked over his shoulder, watching as Sherlock scanned the area, eyes rapidly moving. "Any suggestions?" John asked. "We can probably get in by climbing the wall, or taking down the guards that are posted here during the day." He gestured to the gate. "But once inside? I have no idea what we're up against."

"A high number of Thalmor agents, most likely," Sherlock murmured. He placed a hand on John's shoulder and pointed the other towards the front door. "Our best chance is to disguise ourselves and slip inside. Having that armor on would enable us to walk around as we pleased. Most wouldn't even give us a second look."

John huffed out a breath and hung his head. That did seem like their best shot, and John was not looking forward to the next day. After a few minutes of surveillance, Sherlock and he walked back to their camp. They needed all the rest they could get.

As John settled on the bed of leaves, he glared at the ceiling. "Well, of course _you_ wouldn't get a second look. You already look like one of them!" Sherlock, from his position beside John, only chuckled.


	3. Chapter 3

They left in the morning, after eating a few pieces of fruit Sherlock plucked out of his bag. The atmosphere was tense, or it was to John. He had sat silently, staring into the still kindling fire. His apple had begun to brown. "You don't have anything you can do?" he asked, squeezing his apple. Sherlock had given him a look, so John sighed and shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Mold my face into a more… elfish shape?"

Sherlock made a show of wiping his hands on his front and scooted closer to John. He flourished his hands, twisting his wrists, and then cupped John's face in his hands. John stared into those captivating eyes, and he could have sworn he felt Sherlock's fingers burn, until…

"That's ridiculous, John," Sherlock had said, briskly turning away and flicking his fingers at the fire. It went out. "You have to be grateful of what the Gods gave you."

Now, they made their way up the mountain to the Thalmor Embassy. Harry would be there, and worst case scenario, John's mind would be at ease if they found a body. At least on that front. He tried not to think of that.

Bushes and trees had become their friends during this adventure, and John was becoming more and more accustom to Sherlock's less than perfect manners. He pressed himself fully against John's backside, instead of moving in front and getting a better view. John blew out a steady stream of air as Sherlock nodded towards one of the guards. When he nodded, he pressed even closer. John almost lost his footing.

"We should take that one out first. He's alone."

"Will you not stand on my bloody back?''

Sherlock took a step away from John, casting him a dark look. He looked back towards the guard, who was busying himself with shining a part of his gauntlet.

"Must not get many visitors," John mused underneath his breath. Sherlock managed a smile, a glance towards John, and reached behind him. He pulled out his bow and readied it in his grasp, arrow in place. John's own fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, though he knew Sherlock had this under control. Another second of silence passed, though it felt like much longer, before Sherlock let the arrow fly. It found its home at the back of the elf's neck.

He fell face first into the snow.

Sherlock slowly lowered his bow and ran out through the bushes, down low. John quickly followed behind him, taking refuge against the Embassy's wall. He peered around the corner while Sherlock busied himself with the armor. There were two other guards near the front gate, chatting. A third was near the lake, looking on with their hands on their hips. Very observant crowd.

"Damn," cursed Sherlock. John tore his eyes away from his search and looked on the taller man. He only knew Sherlock for a few days, and he had grown used to the makeshift fur he wore around himself, so it was a strange sight to see him wearing actual armor. Gold armor at that. The shine clashed against his pale skin. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, the helmet he now donned giving his face more of a regal appearance. "I look like a tit."

John laughed dryly. "It'll do. Let's hope I look as marvelous as you." He could almost hear Sherlock roll his eyes from next to him.

"I'll stash him behind those trees. Hopefully, no one will bother to look, and our things will be safe." Sherlock crouched down and grabbed the Altmer's shoulders. He hoisted him up and flicked his eyes into the direction of the other guards. "The two at the gate seem about to leave. Get the one near the lake. Could drown him, if you wish." John was about to comment, but when he turned his head, Sherlock was already feet away, dragging the dead elf to his resting place. John turned back to the elf by the lake—his target.

Sherlock had ended the guard's life so quickly and with no hesitation, that the task of killing someone himself seemed a bit daunting. John had never killed a person before. Spiders, Draugr, and all manners of beast were different. They didn't possess the same glow in their eyes. Still, with that thought clouding his mind, John approached the elf standing by the lake. The two guards by the gate had left, and the other was all alone now. All his.

He slipped the dagger out from his waistband, tightening his hold on the grip. John had never killed a person before, but there was a first time for everything. He reached out as swiftly as he could, covering the elf's mouth with a hand as he sliced his dagger across their neck. The elf let out a muffled cry, and their knees buckled. John managed to help them down into the water, feeling his fingers grow sticky with blood.

The water ran red by the time the elf quit moving.

John stood over them, chest heaving. If killing someone was that easy, he wasn't surprised the Dark Brotherhood was gaining popularity. He sniffed and crouched, only just realizing the water was ice cold. He didn't shiver.

He slipped his dagger back in its proper place and turned the body over. A woman. That gave John pause, and at first he didn't know why. She was a Thalmor, the enemy, but John felt… guilty. He yanked the helmet off her head, and a bundle of blonde hair came tumbling out. It made her look almost heavenly. She could have been someone's daughter, wife, sister. John cupped her face in a hand, dragging his thumb across her pale cheek. A streak of blood followed his trail. How would their family react when they find out what had become of her? Certainly, when someone became a Thalmor guard, they don't readily expect their family member to be killed. They were there to uphold the White-Gold Concordat. They weren't soldiers, they were—

"John."

Ripping his gaze away from the dead elf's face, John looked up to see Sherlock staring down at him. His eyes were narrowed, his expression hard. John felt embarrassed. He looked back down at the woman and pressed his lips together. "Sorry," he said, removing his hand and letting her head fall into the water, the blonde hair fanning out like a halo. John slipped the helmet over his head and stood up. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who still held the same stony expression. John shook his head and grabbed her ankles. "It'll just take a second," he murmured, as he began to drag the guard out of the water and to her resting place behind the trees.

Sherlock left him alone as he exchanged armor, but that didn't stop his embarrassment from leaving. It was idiotic. He knew murder and mayhem was going to take place in this endeavor. It was ridiculous to think otherwise. Killing the woman was so easy. John didn't bother to think about it until after he saw her face, after he realized he could be cradling Harry like that before the night was out.

No. That wasn't going to happen.

John stood up straight after fixing his boots. The breastplate had smears of blood on it. He bent down and scooped up a handful of snow.

*

He had never been in a place so regal, so imposing, so… obviously elfish that it was difficult to keep his head down. Sherlock had warned him, though, before they stepped through the gates.

"Keep that handsome little Nord face of yours down. You'll blow our cover by just a simple glance."

The armor couldn't get them past everything.

Their footsteps echoed down the silent corridors, only matched by the other Thalmor's passing them. None of them looked threatening. They looked like simple Altmer, doing their job. John kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, though, and he could feel how tense Sherlock was beside him. The Breton could always lash out and strike down a number of guards with a snap of his fingers, but Sherlock was composed.

John led them down a hallway and turned, spotting the door to the lower levels. Harry was down there. He could feel it. A guard stood off to the side, not at all worried about the state of things and if there were intruders in the Embassy. John's skin prickled. He began to march down the hall, until Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him back. John stumbled and whipped around, nostrils flaring as he looked up at Sherlock. "What?" he hissed, as he tried to control his breathing. Harry was just a few feet away. She was just within reach.

"We're not going down there," Sherlock said. He pulled on John's arm once again and let it go. He pointed over his shoulder. "We're going to Elenwen's office, the First Emissary. If your sister is hidden here, there's bound to be a record of it somewhere."

Sherlock's voice brought him back to reality. What was he thinking? He knew bursting in there would only lead to trouble, and he wasn't prepared to pull Sherlock into a losing battle. But his blood was boiling. He wanted to fight. No, that wasn't wise. John slowly nodded and looked down at the floor. "Yes, you're right. We should go to her office." John glanced at Sherlock before moving past him, heading to the place Sherlock had pointed towards. Sherlock said nothing. He only followed.

It didn't take long to find Elenwen's office. There were more guards around the door and whispers about the civil war. The Stormcloaks had taken over another Imperial camp. It seemed like the rebels had more support than the Empire first thought. John tried not to make his excitement show too much, but he knew Sherlock noticed.

To draw the guards away from the door, Sherlock tossed a ball of fire towards a well-tended to plant. John watched it go up in flames with a small frown on his face. When he gave Sherlock a dark look, the mage only shrugged. The elves near the office drawer flocked over to the burning plant, each shouting over the other.

"Gods, how did that happen?"

"Who bloody cares how it happened! Fetch some water!"

John and Sherlock slipped towards the door, and John crouched to the keyhole. He looked through and noticed the room was empty. He jiggled the doorknob. Locked. Sherlock sighed rather loudly, and he shoved John aside. "Move," he simply said, as he crouched like John had and stuck a pick into the keyhole. John nervously watched the flailing guards, wondering if Sherlock could manage to unlock the door in time. Getting caught breaking into the First Emissary's office would be a difficult thing to explain, especially when the two perpetrators weren't elves.

The door clicked open, and John placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and pushed him into the room. Sherlock cursed as he fell on his hands and knees, John having to climb on top of him in order to securely shut the door behind them. The close moment didn't last long—Sherlock managed to roll underneath John, leaving him to fall on the hard floor.

"Damn," he spit out.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Sherlock shot back, standing up and looking around. John rolled his eyes and pushed himself into a standing position. He watched as Sherlock moved towards the desk in the center of the room, busying himself with checking each drawer. John pursed his lips and decided to search the bookshelves against the wall. Sherlock would have more luck with the desk, but every nook and cranny should be exploited.

When he finished with the bookshelf and found nothing, John spun around and moved towards the safe on the other side of the room. He tried to open it. That was locked, too. John looked over at Sherlock and held out a hand. "Hand me a pick?" Sherlock, looking particularly frustrated, merely gave John a single look. He mumbled something underneath his breath and dug into his pack, handing over a pick. John went back to the safe and worked on unlocking it, tongue in between his lips. He might not be as fast as Sherlock when it came to picking locks, but Harry and he were kids once, and all kids had a mischievous phase, when they were always up to no good.

He couldn't help but smile when the safe clicked in front of him. John laid the lockpick on top of the box and pulled open the door. Inside were a few pieces of parchment and a book. He felt his heart stop even before he picked up the items.

John carefully examined each paper, looking for anything strange to pop out. These were reports written by Elenwen, as well as some of her guards. Records of who was currently being interrogated, who had provided the most information, who they still needed to find. John looked down the list of people. Harry wasn't there.

"Ah, a whole stash of amulets! No wonder there's always an amulet at an arrest."

"Sherlock, Harry isn't here."

A drawer snapped shut. Sherlock walked behind John and dropped to his knees, reading over his shoulder. John kept quiet and let Sherlock finish reading. If Harry wasn't here, and she wasn't being targeted, then where was she?

He shook his head and passed the papers over to Sherlock, who accepted them without complaint. John didn't want to look at them anymore. He felt sick.

John ran his thumb down the binding of the book. It seemed fragile, like it had been opened and used many times. He wet his lips and cocked his head, opening the book to the first page. It wasn't a book of fiction, where the writing had been treated with care and the pages decorated with colorful illustrations. The writing in the book matched the writing on the pages. Elenwen's. And the story told on the first page and the pages after it seemed to be about the war—the number of soldiers sent forward and where they had come from, on both sides of the war. It listed where each known camp was and if they were still safe. It even had a complete list of the soldiers who had enlisted and their current status.

His hands had a mind of their own. John flipped through page after page after page, searching, searching, searching. Harry's name might not have been on any of the documents he looked for, but that didn't mean another family member's name wouldn't be. Sherlock had remained quiet at his side. John could feel his eyes on him. If he wanted to voice how ridiculous John was being, he didn't.

There was his father's regiment. His name was halfway down the page, and John ran his index finger along the entry, tracing along the cursive and feeling every indention. It was surreal. He turned a few more pages, passing paragraphs that detailed the Stormcloak's campaign. Then he reached Sun's Dawn. The month the regiment went missing. That was what he and Harry received in a letter, however the report told a different story.

_The events described take place on the 12th of Sun's Dawn. The majority of the regiment had been killed, but a few eyewitnesses survived to tell their version of what happened. The rebels captured a camp in Winterhold, where they would be ambushing another Imperial operation in the morning. Everything seemed to be going according to plan, but late that evening, chaos broke loose. It was said there was either an argument that later escalated into a fight amongst the soldiers, or an Imperial soldier had found their way into the camp and attacked the resting rebels, but one of the rebels, James Watson of Dragon Bridge, reportedly turned into a large wolf and turned on his fellow men._

_"It was terrible. There were screams coming from everywhere. We had all killed men before. That's what war was about, but none of us were prepared for… that. Murder, rape, and looting are the usual. Nobody told us we were going to have to deal with fucking werewolves."_

_"Watson was fine for one second, and then the next, he shouted and threw his head back. He howled at the bloody moon, and black fur came out of his ears! I'm not ashamed to admit I'm a deserter. I'm still alive, aren't I?"_

_"Emmett's throat was torn out like it was like paper. Blood gushed everywhere, and against the snow, it was black. I couldn't see where I was going, but I grabbed my sword and tried to help take down the beast. It was gone before we knew it."_

_"There were bodies everywhere. I lost count after forty."_

_No information on James Watson's whereabouts. He is presumed deceased. The families of the fallen have been sent letters indicating they were missing in action, and their service was appreciated._

_May Talos guide them._

John didn't know how he was still steadily holding the book. His heart was racing. He didn't understand. How could his father keep something like this from them? Did his mother know? Was everything his father had told them been a lie? John bowed his head and shut his eyes. He breathed in carefully and snapped the book shut. He had looked up to his father ever since he was a boy. He wanted to be just like him, in every way. How could his father keep something like this hidden? Why didn't he notice?

He was suddenly very aware of his surroundings. His skin felt hot, prickly, like he was being boiled inside his armor. And Sherlock. Sherlock was right behind him, and he knew Sherlock had read everything he had. Sherlock knew his father was dead, but he didn't know this. Maybe he assumed John had. Maybe Sherlock had known somehow, the clever arse. Why didn't he tell him? This wasn't the time to start biting off heads.

The book went back in the safe, and John turned and took the papers from Sherlock. He didn't look at him. In the safe they went. John pushed the door closed and shut his eyes.

It felt like years had passed between them before Sherlock broke the silence. "John," he started, voice low, almost like he didn't want to say anything, but he knew it was necessary. "If… If Harry isn't here, we have to start looking somewhere else."

Sherlock didn't mention his father or anything about what he just read. He talked about Harry, the task at hand. He could pick up on how tense John was. Anyone a mile away could pick up on it. John slowly nodded and stood up. He carefully turned and met Sherlock's gaze. The Breton was giving John a gentle look, nothing too startling and scanning like he would usually give him. He understood what John was going through. He didn't want to bring up the issue until it was absolutely needed. John was much the same. He didn't want to talk about anything that wasn't important at the moment. It might be important down the line, but not right now.

But this was his father. And Harry wasn't here. They had nothing to go on, but they had this.

"I'm not suggesting we give up on Harry," John said slowly, weighing each word. "But I have absolutely no idea where she might be. We mostly kept to ourselves, so she can't be at a friend's. The shop was ransacked. She didn't go willingly. It might have been a robber or, or, something. It wasn't a Thalmor, so I apologize for everything I ever said about bloody elves since we got here"—Sherlock smiled—"but this is my father. And this is important… or at least I think it is."

Sherlock was quiet, and at first John was afraid of what he might say. He was fond of pointing out how ridiculous John was being, but the look on his face gave him a strange feeling of hope. Finally, Sherlock nodded and leaned over, twisting the lock on the safe. "Okay," he said. "Winterhold camp, was it?" He slipped the lockpick back into his pack. "I'm from there, so I am a bit familiar with the area. I feel I am compelled to tell you, however, your father might be dead."

"I know that. I still need to. Searching the area isn't a crime."

He received another smile from Sherlock. He nodded and walked past John, crouching by the door and peering through the keyhole. "I know that. Winterhold is a bit of a walk from here. You don't mind sticking with me a bit longer, do you?"

John approached Sherlock once he opened the door, and they stepped out. The coast was clear, and the plant had been saved from certain doom. The pair walked down the hall, and John felt as if his armor was heavier, as if the knowledge he had just learned was physically weighing him down. "I don't mind," he said finally, as they stepped outside. "We haven't found Harry yet. You're stuck with me until then. You don't mind, do you?"

Sherlock laughed, keeping his eyes ahead at the front gates. "Me neither, John Watson. I think that would be impossible."

*

Winterhold was definitely more than "a bit of a walk". They would be walking halfway across the bloody province. The farthest he ever been from home was, well, Dragon Bridge, and that was only a few hours. Perhaps they won't walk the whole way. There were carriages they could take, horses to be gotten, but Sherlock seemed the type to not mind the walk. The search for Harry was a dead end. There were no more leads. John was reluctant to go back to Solitude, to the shop. If Harry hadn't been taken by the Thalmor, then who did? And would they be waiting for John to return?

They managed to leave the walls of the Embassy without any trouble. John was the first to reach the hiding place of their tree and quickly began to work off the armor. It felt refreshing, like shedding an extra skin. The crisp air nipped at his skin, but he didn't mind. The glances he received from Sherlock warmed him enough to where standing in his smallclothes struggling with his boots wasn't a problem.

"Is Winterhold as cold as this place?" John asked as they made their way down the mountain. He knew the answer, but seeing the look on Sherlock's face was worth it.

Sherlock sighed noisily. "The name's _Winter_ hold, John. It doesn't take a genius." His cheeks were pink. John didn't think it was because of the cold. He kept quiet.

They decided they were going to walk as long as they could before nightfall. Minimal stops, eating along the way. John didn't know where they would be spending the night, but Sherlock had out his map, looking at each section closely. There was a candlelight floating over his shoulder illuminating the paper. John had an inkling they wouldn't be stopping at any inns, though. Sherlock, however, surprised him.

"Ever been to Rorikstead?" John furrowed his brow and looked over at Sherlock. "Of course you haven't," Sherlock answered for him. "The woods outside your town were your boundary." He folded up the map and slipped it back into his pack.

John didn't think that warranted a comment. "Are we going to Rorikstead?" he asked carefully.

"Frostfruit Inn," Sherlock corrected. He shrugged. "We've had a long day. I say we deserve a nice bed and a fire."

"Thank the Gods." Sherlock shot him a dark look. John cleared his throat and looked ahead. "Not that your caves aren't… good."

Sherlock shook his head and let out a laugh. "John," he started. "You're a terrible liar." He lifted his hand and caught the candlelight. The only thing guiding their way was the moon.

It was still minutes before they arrived at Rorikstead, but as John saw the town and the houses with their lights on, and heard the absent barking of a dog, the clucking of a chicken, John realized he didn't mind. Staying in a town, any town, was preferable than a damp camp, and the walk there paled in comparison.

As they passed the various homes to get to the inn, John could hear children yelling, playing with their siblings. He felt nostalgic. Sherlock managed to drag himself out of the rose-colored world.

"Here we are," he said, voice soft. Sherlock held open the door for John before stepping inside himself. The inn was a burst of warmth, one John gladly welcomed. He breathed in and looked around. It was busy, but nothing that would turn him away. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder and lightly squeezed. "I'll get us a room. Find us a table."

John went one way, Sherlock went another. The table John chose was more off to the side, but they would still be surrounded by patrons. He sat where his back would be to the doorway, as he knew Sherlock preferred to be facing the exit. As he waited, John looked through his pack. He acted like he was preoccupied with the contents.

Sherlock returned and placed a mug in front of John. "Only room available had one bed." He sat down and pulled his own mug closer. "The floor's good enough for me."

"No, no. I can have the floor. I'm dragging you all over the place."

"I insist." Sherlock stared at John, gaze steady. He nodded towards John's mug. "Now drink. Paid some good gold for that beer."

John looked down at the presented mug, at the brown liquid that seemed to beckon him. He glanced towards Sherlock. "Trying to get me drunk?" he asked, picking up the tankard and taking a drink. He had never tasted beer like this. Sherlock must not have been lying. "Any old beer would satisfy me," he added before Sherlock could answer.

He hummed and took another sip from his own mug. "Only the best for my traveling companion." John didn't bother to reply to Sherlock's increasingly smug face. He drank instead.

Traveling companion or not, if a bloke like Sherlock had offered to buy him a drink, John would definitely not say no. That realization made John's head a touch more cloudy, or it could have been the drink. It was most likely the drink.

The inn had a bard, as most inns do, and their job was to entertain the kind visitors, either with telling jokes, doing tricks, or singing songs. Most of the songs played now were the one supporting the rebels or the one supporting the Imperial. John didn't like to admit it, but the Imperial's song was a tad bit catchier than the Stormcloak's.

" _Down with Ulfric! The killer of kings! On the day of your death, we will drink and we'll sing!_ "

Whiterun was neutral, so John had no idea why this song was being played. Then again, someone might have requested it. Though, it wouldn't be long before Whiterun would have to pick a side, whether it was willingly or by force.

"Imperial scum," John spit out, waving his mug. He laughed when some spilled over the edge. Sherlock shook his head and downed the rest of his drink. John pointed his mug at Sherlock, attempting to mind the remainder of his drink. "What say you, Sherlock? I see you shaking your head. Tell me your thoughts about this war."

Sherlock snorted and set his mug down. "I'd rather not."

John sighed noisily and turned his head, looking over at the bard and his lute. He didn't blame Sherlock for not wanting to concern himself with the war, the wise did stay out of it, but John couldn't help but wonder. Sherlock hailed from Winterhold, which is closer to Windhelm than Solitude. If anything, Sherlock would favor the rebels and Ulfric's cause, but his brother was in Solitude. That didn't mean anything, though.

The bard adjusted his grip on his lute and began to strum a different tune. "Here's a favorite of mine, and a fine and bloody one, at that." He cleared his throat and gave a big smile. " _Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead_ …"

An eruption of laughter and pounding emerged from the patrons. John laughed along with them and looked over at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and flashed a smile at John.

Sherlock's apparent disgust with the jovial atmosphere of the inn was completely gone by the time they were behind closed doors. To be fair, he had also consumed much more drink. John pushed Sherlock through the doorway and into their room. The Breton swayed as he stood, spinning around and pointing at John. " _And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade, as he told of bold battles and gold he had made._ " He stopped, then, and gestured towards John, who blankly stared. Sherlock waved his hands. " _As he told of bold battles and gold he had made_ …"

Oh! John sighed and shook his head, but he couldn't help but smile. " _But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red when he met the shield-maiden Matilda, who said_ —"

"— _'oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead. Now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed!_ '" Sherlock barked out a laugh and took an arrow out of his quiver. He brandished it like a sword, the point aimed at John.

John raised an eyebrow and slipped his sword out of its sheath. He returned the brandishing. " _And so then came clashing and slashing of steel, as the brave lass Matilda charged in, full of zeal._ " Sherlock took a step forward and slashed the arrow through the air. John leapt back, hitting the side table and making Sherlock laugh.

" _And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more_ —" Sherlock moved to step forward, but John was quicker. He jolted forward, sword outstretched. This time it was Sherlock who leapt back and landed on the bed. Feathers flew out of the pillow. Sherlock made a show out of waving the arrow, more so like it was a wand rather than a great sword. "— _when his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!_ "

John glanced up at Sherlock and swung his sword, slicing off the tip of Sherlock's arrow. They both watched as it fell to the floor. _Cling_. John roughly swallowed and looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes were narrowed. His arm was still out, pointless arrow staring at John in the face.

He saw as Sherlock's pupils dilated, and John knew his did, too.

John quickly lowered his gaze and slipped his sword back into its place. He turned on his heel, his cheeks burning. This was very bad. He cleared his throat and studied the floor. "I'll have the floor," he said, as he dropped to his knees and dragged the extra blankets from underneath the bed. He made an effort to make the floor as comfortable as possible.

When he fell asleep, John felt Sherlock's eyes on him, from where he still stood on the bed.

*

Neither of them spoke as they woke up the following morning. John had a pounding in his head and a bad taste in his mouth. He didn't even want to imagine how Sherlock was feeling. Probably worse than him. Still, they had to soldier through. Not for Harry now, but for the prospect of John finding his father. Then came Harry.

They stayed in their room as they ate some of the fruit Sherlock kept in his bag. Tasteless at the moment, but it was better than nothing. They needed all their strength. More walking today.

It was sunny when they walked outside, and if John believed in the weather foretelling good fortune, today was the best day to go traveling. Sherlock pulled out his map again and silently studied it as they made their way out of Rorikstead. John didn't bother to interrupt him. He looked deep in thought. Perhaps he was staring at the map, but his mind was miles away.

Was he thinking about last night, like John was? Was he considering the different outcomes, like John was? Was he hoping for a do over, like John was? Was he imagining the taste of his lips, like—no. He couldn't be having these thoughts. More important things were at hand. Maybe later, when the circumstances were different.

Would Sherlock even want to deal with him after this was done? Or would he rather have his hands cleaned of John and his family? The thought frightened John, and he found himself looking at Sherlock in a different light. The Breton folded to another section of the map and pursed his lips. John turned back ahead. He was being ridiculous. Sherlock wasn't that type of man.

"What does your map say?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced over at him, as if he was surprised to hear him speak. He blinked and looked back at the map. "Have to pass a few more mountains, but it's nothing we can't handle. Morthal comes first, and then Dawnstar, but the camp is closer to Dawnstar than Winterhold." Sherlock turned the paper over before he closed it. "If anything, a day, maybe two, before we get there."

John slowly nodded and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Do you think it'll be snowy?"

"Most definitely." John looked over at Sherlock, who caught his eye. They both instinctively smiled.

*

Just as they planned before, they made as little stops as they could and only rested when it got too dark to see their fingers in front of their faces. Sherlock didn't even bother to keep pushing them with his candlelight. John would have protested anyway.

They also didn't stay in any more inns. John was thankful. Besides, the caves were occupied with spiders and Draugr, and it was always good to get some practice in.

Morthal came and went, and Dawnstar soon took its place. They arrived in Dawnstar in the early afternoon of their second day of traveling. It was snowy and bitter cold, but the mountains that concealed the Thalmor Embassy were worse. They didn't linger long in the city, as they already received suspicious looks along the road.

Making their way out of the city, John felt his spirits grow higher. He knew the probability of finding something that pointed to his father was low, but maybe he could get some closure if he saw the place where he was last seen. He could make his peace, and be done with the ridiculous fantasy of finding him alive in Dragon Bridge in their old house. He wasn't a boy anymore, and he needed to lose the boyish dreams.

"This was the old camp," Sherlock murmured, walking past John and towards the collapsed tents and scattered supplies. He walked along the scene, kicking rocks away and looking around at the surrounding woods. "I'll go on ahead," he said, and then he was off, leaving John alone.

He stood in the center of the ruins and let out a slow sigh. This was where it happened. The chaos and the wild tale. James Watson transformed into a werewolf and tore his adopted family limb-from-limb. John took a few steps further and crouched down near the larger tent. The regiment's lieutenant slept here. There was a map, filled with holes, where pushpins had punctured the paper, marking the areas they had scouted and the ones that still needed to be. Across the center of the paper was a blood smear. John ran his thumb across the weathered map and stood up. He turned his attention to an overturned chest, where the contents were spilling out. John crouched next to it and picked up object after object. Books, jewelry, amulets, broken armor, and used weapons, rusted with blood.

John shook his head and dropped a sword against a battered shield.

Nothing. This was a grave, and did nothing for him. He couldn't place his father in the scene, and he sure as hell couldn't place him in a wolf's skin.

"You better lower that thing, or I swear to Talos, you're not going to have arms to point it with!"

John shot his head up, eyes wide. It was a woman's voice. It came from deeper into the woods, where Sherlock had gone. "Shit," he breathed out and scrambled to his feet. John darted into the trees, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to strike if necessary.

He met Sherlock first, who had seemed to step out from behind a tree. He had out his bow, and there was a purple mist slowly disappearing at his feet. Redbeard must have been with him, John thought. "What the hell is going—?" he started, but when he turned his head and saw who Sherlock was pointing out, he froze.

It was Harry.

John recognized her instantly. Her hair was still neatly pulled back, and while her cheeks looked a bit more sunken in, it was definitely her. She didn't look like she had been hurt any, but she did look rattled by the arrow pointed right at her head. John lifted his hand and touched Sherlock's arm. "Drop it," he told him.

"What, why?" Sherlock furrowed his brow and glanced at John.

"Because that's my bloody sister," he spit out, and he ran out from the cover of the trees and towards Harry. Harry, who jumped and held out a dagger, immediately lowered it at the sight of him. John crashed into her and wrapped his arms around her thin frame. "Gods, Harry, I didn't think I was going to see you again," he whispered, turning his face and burying it in her neck.

Harry laughed and hugged him even tighter. "Shut up," she said, voice sounding a bit choked up. "You knew I was fine. I'm always fine." She pulled back and looked at him, smile wide. "I knew you'd come looking for me, you tit."

"What else was I supposed to do? Leave you in these woods to rot?" He managed a laugh, but Harry just shook her head.

"I'm not going to stay and rot here," she said briskly. Harry bent over, then, and picked up the basket that had dropped by her feet. Flowers and various plants were inside. "In fact, we were about to send you a—"

"—do you have any idea what I thought happened to you?" John interrupted. "I thought the Thalmor got you! Threw you in a cell and tortured you!" He stretched out a hand and cupped Harry's cheek. "Do you know how guilty I felt?" He ran his thumb across her skin.

She turned away. "I _told_ you. I wasn't going to get caught."

"Who's we?" Sherlock took a step forward, then, bow safely on his back. His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he moved to stand next to Harry and John. "You said 'we'." He glanced behind her, further into the woods. "Who are you with?"

Harry flustered for a moment, and she turned to look at John. "Oh, Johnny, it's a miracle. I could hardly believe it. In fact, I didn't believe it when he turned up at the shop. I thought it was a thief, but I was just being silly."

John's heart raced. "Who are you with?" he repeated, reaching out a hand and holding onto her arm.

She grinned and tightened her hold on the basket. "It's dad, John! He's alive! Can you believe it?"


	4. Chapter 4

John stood over the stream, a homely spear in his hand. He watched as fish darted towards him and then moved away. He stabbed at the water each time the fish got close enough, but he never got a fish. It always ended with a cry of irritation. "I can't do it!" he yelled and stabbed his spear into the soil. It sank easily.

"Don't say that, Johnny boy," his father said, walking over to the young boy and ruffling the blond locks. He crouched to become eye level with his son. "Look over there, at your sister. Do what she's doing." John turned his head and narrowed his eyes at Harry, who seemed to catch fish as if it was as simple as breathing.

He angrily turned back to his father. "I can't do that! She's cheating."

"How do you know that?"

"I just know. She's doing magic or something." John let go of his spear and crossed his arms over his chest. The weapon leaned against John's arm. "She needs to do it properly."

James laughed and plucked the spear from the ground. He stuck the tip into the water and washed the mud off. "She is doing it properly, Johnny. She's getting fish. That's all that matters." John huffed, which made his father laugh even more. He stood up straight and held out the spear towards John. "Try it again, and don't just stab at the water. Stab at the fish."

"I am stabbing at the fish," he muttered, not looking at James as he took the weapon back from him. He kept his eyes on the talisman around his neck, the small piece of Stalhrim hanging there on a string. John looked back into the water, glaring at the fish that began to approach him again. Stab at the fish, not at the water. He tightened his grip on the spear and glanced over at Harry. He mimicked her stance and bent his knees. The fish, not the water. John stuck his tongue in between his lips and held his breath. He felt as still as stone, until… _Splash_. John lashed out his spear and brought it back up. The point had pierced a fish, which was now struggling to save itself.

John felt like jumping up and cheering. His father did for him. "There you go!" he said and reached over, plucking the fish from the spear. He tossed it in the basket behind him. "Along with Harry's catch, your mother will have plenty to deal with this evening." James ruffled John's hair again. "Go get your sister and go on home. I'll catch up."

Instead, John dropped his spear and cupped his hands over his mouth. "Harry, we're going home!" he called, and he picked up his spear. John smiled up at his father and stayed by his side, until he returned home, too.

Before they went home, though, John followed his father to a deeper section of the woods. He had never been here before, not even when Harry and he felt adventurous. Their mother always warned them to stay away from the dark part of the woods, but his father had no qualms with letting John follow him today.

James Watson said nothing as he stopped in the middle of a clearing, set the basket of fish down, and dropped to his knees. He tipped his head back to the sky and shut his eyes. John stood some feet away, gripping his spear for dear life. He wasn't scared, no, he was almost a man grown…

His father lowered his gaze, then, and drew out a dagger. John barely had any time to react before his father pricked his palm and let his blood drizzle onto the grass.

"Dad, no!" He started forward, hand outstretched, but he knew it would do little good.

James looked over at John and only gave him a smile. "Don't worry, John. It's an offering." He stood up, lips pressed against the spot on his hand. "You'll understand one day," he said kindly and picked up the basket. He walked past John, who reluctantly followed the rest of the way home.

That evening they ate fried fish. John didn't tell Harry or his mother what he saw.

*

Bodies can rise from the dead when an experienced mage put their skills into necromancy, or when a curse fell upon a crypt or cave and Draugrs made themselves known, but John didn't have any knowledge beyond that. Could this be happening? Could his father actually be alive, after months of silence? Why did he show up at the shop, and why did he need Harry? Would he have taken John, too, if he had arrived home only minutes earlier?

Would John even recognize him?

Harry seemed to be in the right state of mind as they walked through the woods. He didn't know how far they needed to go, but he kept quiet and followed. Sherlock made no attempt to speak either. John wondered how he felt. Did he feel left out from this family affair? Did he want to leave? Or was this something he was interested in—a puzzle for him to solve? John didn't blame him. If the man he was traveling with had told him his father who was dead wasn't actually dead, he'd want answers, too. It felt like Sherlock had been with him since the very beginning.

They made it to their destination: a small cabin in the woods. John stopped in his tracks and looked at the building. He pressed his lips together and tried to will his stomach to stop churning. John tightened his fingers into a fist. Sherlock paused beside him and lightly stroked his hand with the backs of his fingers. It felt like lightning had passed between their fingertips, so John lifted his head, ready to chastise, but he found he couldn't. He stared at Sherlock, who stared at him, giving him a look he couldn't quite read, but John knew this: Sherlock hadn't cast a spell on him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, voice soft.

John nodded and attempted to swallow. His throat was dry. "Yes," he said, because that was all he felt he could say.

Harry was the one who roused him from the moment. She looked at him with an odd expression on her face, though she said nothing. John didn't say anything either. Sherlock was behind him now, figuratively and literally, and he stood next to Harry as she opened the front door.

The cabin was one large room and smelled old, like no fresh air had been allowed to pass through it for some time. It seemed dusty from where he was standing, but it wasn't cold. There was a fire welcoming them in the fireplace, a pot hanging over the open flame. John didn't know what was cooking in the pot, but the way it bubbled reminded him of Harry's vegetable soup. A double bed was pushed off to the corner of the room, and its blankets and mattress looked worse for wear, as if a dog had stood on top of the bed and bit and tore at the covers.

There was also a bookshelf shoved off to the other side, filled to the brim with books. Some looked new, and others looked so old that John would be afraid to touch them. In front of the fireplace was a table, able to seat three. Papers scattering along the surface, and John began to grow uneasy as he set his eyes on the man sitting at the head of the table. John knew it was his father by the familiar look in his eye. His blond hair had gotten dirtier and longer since last he saw him, and he now had a bundle of the locks pulled back with a ribbon. His face was gaunt and unshaven, lips cracked and smile wild.

"Johnny," James Watson said, and he stood from the table. He walked around the table, arms outstretched. He was shaking. "Oh, look at you… You've changed so much." John had to fight not to recoil as his father stopped in front of him, still smiling that manic grin. He let out a small laugh and pressed his calloused palm to John's cheek. "Did Harry tell you we were about to come find you? You weren't home when I visited."

John felt Sherlock shift behind him. He only shook his head. "No, she didn't _specifically_ say that. Just that you were about to send me something." He glanced over at Harry, who walked silently past her father and brother and over to the pot of food. She got out a wooden spoon and poked at the contents. John looked back at his father. "I can only assume it was a, a bird, or…" he trailed off.

"A courier," Sherlock finished.

He nodded, then, and pointed a finger at Sherlock. "Yeah, that."

James slowly narrowed his eyes and lowered his hand from John's face. "Who's this?" he asked, voice suddenly sounding a lot deeper and rougher. He took a step forward and was in Sherlock's face. Sherlock stretched out his spine, appearing to make himself look taller, though it was no use. James had a few good inches over him. The older man leaned forward and sniffed Sherlock, long and noisily. He pulled back with a grimace. "He has bad blood," he said softly. "Though… I do detect a sweet scent. Something that is in all of us…" James' eyes widened, and he cocked his head. "Boy," he started, smiling and exposing yellow, cracked teeth. "You have no idea what you've done to yourself."

Sherlock didn't let his eyes waver from James' face, didn't show any weakness, any emotion whatsoever. "Oh, I think I knew exactly what I was doing," he replied.

John glanced between the both of them and then looked over at Harry. Harry was giving him the same blank look and shrugged. "What happened?" he asked, moving closer to the pair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Harry and I were told you went missing, and I discovered quite a few things trying to look for her."

His father turned his head away from Sherlock, who still kept his eyes on him. James looked at John, studying him for a moment. "I did go missing," he answered after a second, walking back to the table. He sat down and pressed his palms to the tabletop, over the papers in front of him. "But I had to come back, to finish this." James lifted his gaze and stared at John, giving him the same penetrating stare. "Harriet was frightened the first time she saw me. Nearly blew my head off, didn't you, dear?"

"Well, you shouldn't break into someone's house," she spit out, keeping her eyes on the pot. "Especially when Solitude is already a frightful place."

"Just like her mother."

John didn't want to hear any of this. He didn't want to hear any playful banter or how glad their father was to see them. He wanted answers, simple as that. John walked over and stood on the other side of the table, narrowing his eyes. "No. Tell me what happened." Sherlock moved behind him, and John could feel the Breton standing close to him.

His father raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his seat. He crossed his own arms over his chest. "Tell me what you know."

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't looking at him, though. He was still concentrating on James, and there was a look in his eye that John couldn't quite read. John looked at Harry, then, gripping the spoon like she had the dagger outside only minutes ago. She must know, he thought. Father must have told her everything when he got her.

"Your regiment had just captured an Imperial camp," John started. "Later that night, something happened, and you. You… turned into a wolf." James' face showed no sign of change, so John continued. "You turned into a wolf and practically slaughtered everyone in the camp, and then took off running. The Stormcloaks and the Empire covered it up, but they didn't bother to investigate any further."

"They let you go free," Sherlock added. "Either they didn't want to bother tracking you down, or they really did believe you were dead. Most don't know much about werewolves. The only foundation that's readily available is folklore and scary stories you tell your children at bedtime." He smiled. "Not very good knowledge."

James' nostrils flared, and he scooted to the edge of his seat, a hand gripping the side of the table. "You would know a lot about knowledge, wouldn't you, boy? I'm surprised my children can't smell that shit dripping off of you."

Before Sherlock could respond, Harry pulled the pot off the fire and dropped it on the table with a loud thud. She put her hands on her hips and looked at each of them. The disappointment was evident on her face, but when she looked at Sherlock, she didn't seem to see anything distasteful about him. Harry looked back at her father. "Can we stop the bickering, and just get on with it? Dad, tell John what you told me. Stop dancing around it." She dropped into a chair and crossed her legs.

"You're right, pumpkin. I lost my temper." He shot one last look at Sherlock before he sank into his chair. James propped his head up with a hand and turned his attention to John. He grew that smile again. "I'm here to take you home, Johnny boy."

Home? Where was that? He didn't know anymore. John shook his head. "Dragon Bridge isn't the place for me—"

"—no, no. Not Dragon Bridge, son. _Home_. My home. I'm here to take my children to Solstheim. That's where you belong."

"What makes you think we want to go anywhere with you?" John said, narrowing his eyes. "You can't expect us to just leave everything we made for ourselves here, can you? Harry pack up shop, desert the province, and hop on a boat, just because you said so?" He shook his head. "Dad, I don't know if you know this or not, but I'm having a bit of a crisis at the moment. I found out that my own father is a bloody werewolf. How am I supposed to handle that? My whole life I grew up thinking you were the best thing in the world. I forgave your bad tempers and your shit attempts at spending time together, and I even kept your woods thing a secret. But this? How could you ask us this?" John felt like a broken pipe. Once he started, he couldn't stop. Thankfully, Sherlock reached behind him and set a hand on his shoulder. It was gone after a second.

Harry kept her head down, her eyes fixed on a spot on her dress. Had she had this same conversation with him already, or was she finally getting answers, too? James didn't look bothered about John's outburst. In fact, he looked like he was expecting it.

"I'm asking you this because I'm your father. I raised you and took care of you, especially after your mother died. The least you could do is hear me out—"

"—fine! I'll hear you out. Go." John marched over to the remaining chair. He sat down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface. "Tell me what happened. Everything. I don't want a watered down version either. You owe both me and Harry that before we even agree to run off with you."

Silence followed this. James looked like he was readying himself, gathering the words he would have to say. John expected he didn't have to tell this story that often, living in the woods for a good few months. Sherlock walked across the cabin and stopped by the bookshelf, seeming to preoccupy himself with the books, but John knew he would be listening.

Finally, his father spoke. "I grew up in Skaal Village, in Solstheim. We don't believe in the Nine Divines the Nords here do. It's the All-Maker. He is one and everything. While living there, I mostly kept to myself, but I did have a couple close friends, Trissen and Ygfel. We did everything together, and as I'm sure you and Harry know, as kids we got into a bit of trouble. None that our parents found out about, thank the Gods, but it was trouble all the same.

"One day, the three of us went out into the woods and found this old shack. It was falling apart, smelled of death, but we were curious. Ygfel was the best hunter, so she went into the house first, just to scope it out. When she found nobody, she popped her head out of the window and called Trissen and I into the house. Inside, we found books that contained spells and curses of all kinds, shelves full of ingredients that would make your skin crawl, and next to the fire, a cauldron filled with this dark red liquid. You can probably imagine what we thought.

"Trissen was the first who saw her coming. We all ran into different parts of the shack, but, frankly, that was an awful thing to do. The damn place was already so small. Ygfel stayed put, though. She was always brave, never backed down from a challenge. She had her dagger in hand, ready to strike the hag who returned home.

"The door opened, and in came the woman. She was haggard and looked ancient, with her long, matted silver hair. She didn't look like a friendly grandmother, though. She had these… yellow eyes. The ones that could have belonged to a painting that followed you around. Trissen was hidden underneath the bed, and I was, somehow, squashed in her wardrobe. That place didn't smell much better.

"Well, Ygfel stood there, dagger at her side, and she asked the woman why she was there. The woman gave her a proper look and lifted her hand, pointing at Ygfel with a crooked finger and said, 'I should be asking _you_ why you're here, but it doesn't matter. I can see in your eyes what you want, and I'm prepared to give it to you. Only if your two other friends come out.'

"Ygfel just shook her head and tried to convince her that she had come to the shack by herself. The old woman didn't believe her and said that she could smell Trissen and I. 'They won't get a reward if they don't come out,' she croaked, and Trissen and I busted out of our hiding places. I thought we would at least be able to make it out alive if we obeyed her.

"She made us sit around her table, and she started to tell us about herself. Her name was Sirihe the Whitemane, and that name alone told us what we were in for. We heard the name many times, but never been told of the face that coupled with it. On Solstheim, many worship the Daedric Prince Hircine. The Huntsman of the Princes. The Father of Manbeasts. However you'd like to refer to him. He grants his followers great power, and when their time has come to die, promises to take them to the great Hunting Grounds, where they can spend the rest of their afterlife capturing prey in peace.

"At our age, we could certainly see the appeal for taking part of worshipping this Prince. At face value, he wasn't a particularly evil Prince, when compared to his Daedric brethren. Not needlessly destructive, but not exactly benevolent. It didn't matter to us. Many of our tribe consisted of hunters, and, of course, we wanted to be the best. We were naïve and foolish, but… we agreed. We told Sirihe that we would join her in her evening worship, and she promised by the night's end, we would be proper followers of Hircine. 'He will thank you greatly,' she said.

"We didn't know what taking part in this worship entailed. We had heard rumors, but they were only rumors. Soon, though, when night began to fall, Sirihe retrieved a bowl from a cabinet and set it in the middle of the table. Then, as she tossed back her head, she howled, and before our eyes, she turned into this great beast. Coal black fur, menacing eyes, and snarling as she looked down at us. You couldn't tell that this was just an old woman seconds ago. There was so much power underneath her skin. She could snap you in two if she grabbed at your arm and yanked you the right way.

"Trissen and Ygfel were frightened, and so was I, but each of us saw an opportunity, and we took it. If this was the cost for great power, surely it must be worth it. Sirihe clambered over to the table and bit her wrist. She hung her arm over the bowl, and we watched as her blood dripped out, filling the bowl little by little.

"We each drank from the bowl, and the next thing we knew, we were waking up somewhere in the woods with nothing but our smallclothes on. We hurried back to the village and told our parents nothing of what happened. Every fortnight, Trissen and I would meet up with Ygfel in the woods, and there we would turn into these great wolves. We had so much power and strength, that it was hard to resist running into the village and showing everyone what we had been awarded. We wondered how many more of the Skaal possessed this ability but said nothing. It was selfish to keep this gift to ourselves, but we had been told tales of werewolves, and they were creatures not to be messed with. We saw little reason to tell the other children at home this, so we reluctantly kept it hidden. We were good at it, too. None of our parents found out.

"Years passed, and Trissen and I, along with a couple other Skaal, decided to leave Solstheim and go to Skyrim. Change of scenery, better business, what have you. Ygfel refused to come, though we tried to persuade her to change her mind, but that lass was always stubborn. We made our voyage to the province, and we weren't even a week in Skyrim when Trissen fell ill and died. Got Rockjoint from a bloody wolf. I sent a letter to Ygfel, and she urged me to come home, but I didn't. She'd have to come fetch me. She never did.

"Then, I met your mother. She was the first Nord that never annoyed me. We got to know each other, and—well, I'm sure the both of you have heard the story a thousand times over. Your mother told me everything about her, and, in turn, I told her everything about me. Starting with my name and what my favorite color was, and right down to how I was afflicted with lycanthropy. She was scared, as you can imagine, but she… warmed up to the idea.

"So, about three months into our relationship, I proposed to her. Later that night, I turned her into a werewolf.

"You guys came, and both of you were the best things that happened to your mother and me. We were so happy. We wanted the absolute best for you, like any other parents. When the both of you turned three, we wanted to give you the best present ever. We lead you into the woods—"

"—stop!" Harry lurched forward, hands covering her face. She shook her head again and again. "That isn't true! That isn't _true_!"

James reached over and touched Harry's arm. She drew back from his touch. "It is true, darling. We wanted the best for you two, and what better way to give you the best, then giving you our gift, too?"

"You're sick," John spit out. He had sat silently, listening to his father's story and watching as Harry's face turned into a grotesque portrait. He was sure his face looked similar. This was his father, the man who was supposed to protect and guard them with his life, but he was simply just a man who sought power and more power. He wouldn't have been satisfied with him being the only one cursed. "You convinced mother to become like you, and then you twisted her mind even more when you threw us into the picture? You weren't giving the best to us. You were cursing us!"

"It's not a curse!" his father shot back. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Tendrils of dirty hair fell into his face. "It is a blessing from Hircine. Your mother said the same thing, but she came around, and you both will, too." James looked over at Harry and tried to touch her arm again. "Little Harriet, we were afraid you weren't going to make it through the night, but you did. You woke up that morning as strong as ever." Harry stared down at the table, her nose wrinkled and eyes shining. James turned towards John and held out his hand, palm up. "You, Johnny, you took up the role so well. You were meant to follow Hircine. And He knew it, too. He will pay you graciously when you return to his Hunting Grounds."

John scooted back further in his chair. He rested his hands on his thighs, fingers curled into fists. "I don't want to go to his bloody Hunting Ground!" he yelled. "I am a Nord. I am going to Sovngarde when I die." He lifted a hand and scratched angrily at the back of his head. "I can't believe you would do this to your own children!"

"What happened to Mother?" Harry asked. "I found that recipe for poison in one of her books." Her eyes were still shining, but her voice remained strong. "She killed herself because of you, didn't she? Didn't she?!"

James lowered his gaze to the floor. "Time didn't take too kindly to her. As each day passed, she became increasingly worried about you and John's wellbeing. You both showed no signs of lycanthropy, never even took the other skin, and when you both turned twelve… she feared the worst. She was guilty. I tried to tell her that she had no reason to feel this way. She had helped give you a precious gift, but she didn't see it that way anymore. So, yes," he said, "she killed herself because of me, if you want to be so simplistic."

"I'm not being simplistic. That's what happened!" Harry slammed her palms on the table. "When you broke into our house you just said you wanted to take us to Solstheim. You never even mentioned any of this to me! I had to sit in this damn cabin for days, waiting and waiting and waiting. Do you even know what was going through my mind? How I worried about John?"

"The plan was to get the both of you. I had to improvise."

John pounded a fist on the table. "Why Solstheim? Why do we need to go back there? Why would we even want to go there? That place ruined our lives!"

"It did not and will not," James said, trying to keep his voice level and calm. "John, Harry, Hircine is calling for us. He needs us back on Solstheim. The Bloodmoon Prophecy is fast approaching. Hircine's Hounds have already returned to the island. They are making themselves known. The Fire from the Eye of Glass has appeared on Lake Fjalding. Don't you see? His Great Hunt is coming this era, and we must join him. We have his blood in our veins, and we have to join him. It is only right."

John lifted his hand and pointed a finger at his father. "This is… a load of bullshit." He glanced at Harry and then over at Sherlock. He was still standing by the bookshelf, but his eyes were on the Watson family. His lips were pressed together, eyes narrowed. A million questions must be going through his head right now, but he didn't voice any of them. This wasn't his affair. "We are not werewolves. Do you hear me?" John continued.

"You are, son! You've just never tried to reach that part of yourself. If only you knew earlier. If only I had told you when your mother died, but she wanted to protect you two. Only tell you when the proper time had come, and this is the proper time now. Hircine is beckoning us to return home. Your tempers are rising. Give in."

"The only time I'm going to turn into a damned wolf is when I'm going to rip your throat out," John hissed.

"John!" Harry cried, looking at him with wide eyes.

"No, Harry." He looked at her, eyes wide, too. "He was planning to kidnap us and take us to Solstheim just because of this ridiculous prophecy! Do you honestly want anything to do with this?" She stared at him, pressing her fingers to her lips. "Harry," he muttered. "This isn't our father. He's twisted, corrupted. He killed our mother." Harry shut her eyes.

"That's enough!" James yelled. "I am your father! I have not changed at all. I have been this way since the day you two were born."

John leaned forward and glared. "We must have seriously misjudged you, then. Harry, me, and Mom."

"Now, John, you're being absolutely—" James stood, raising a hand.

"Sit back down." John and Harry turned their heads to see Sherlock, now at the end of the table. His own hand was raised, a fireball in the middle of his palm.

James slowly narrowed his eyes. He dropped his hand and held his fist at his side. "You! You have no right to threaten me! Your blood is _bad_. How dare you give your life into that darkness! Hircine is different! He is honorable and proud! Nothing like you and your rancid—"

"—Harry, now!" John pushed back from his chair, letting it fall to the floor. While James turned his head to look at his son, Harry reached into her apron and pulled out her dagger. She pulled her arm back and whipped it around, stabbing the steel weapon into her father's leg. The dagger stuck in his leg for a few seconds, and while James let out a cry of pain, Harry twisted and ripped it out. James staggered and leaned over the table, breathing heavily.

Harry stood up and pointed the dagger at him. "You are not our father," she said, voice stern.

It all happened at once. James let out another cry and arched his back, tossing his head to the side. He growled and snarled, and soon dark hair sprouted on his face. His hands grew long talons, and he shot up several inches. James shook his head, spit slinging out of his mouth. He looked back at Harry with venomous yellow eyes and snapped his teeth.

"Oh, no, you don't." John launched himself across the table, wrapping his arms around James' neck and taking him down to the floor. The pot of food on the table toppled, landing with a thud and spilling the contents all over the floor. Harry leapt back, dropping her dagger and letting blood splatter across the wood, mixing with the vegetable stew. "You won't harm us anymore," John growled, punching the side of his father's head again and again, but it was no use. The wolf didn't seem to feel the strikes. He turned his attention to John, nostrils flaring. John's eyes widened, and he lowered his hands, fumbling for his sword. He withdrew it as soon as he was thrown off James.

John landed on his back, face to face with the beast, who snapped and growled right in his face. He grunted and put all of his strength behind his sword, stabbing it somewhere in James' stomach. The wolf whined and seemed to shrink back, but he stayed overtop John. He only seemed to get angrier.

A bolt of lightning lashed out and struck James' shoulder. He fell off of John, then, allowing him to yank out his sword. Blood showered down. John rolled away and got on his hands and knees. He looked up to see Sherlock with his hand outstretched, his fingertips still sparkling. In his other hand, the fireball still stayed, poised and ready. Harry ran over to John and helped him up. "Come on. Get up, you big loon," she muttered. John grabbed his sword with clumsy fingers.

"No, no, Harry, _stop_." John pushed Harry away from him and turned around, just in time to duck from a swing by James. He pulled on Harry's dress, hoping to make her fall down before she was struck. Too late.

Harry flew back and hit the table, dropping off the other side and crashing into John's fallen chair. She sprawled on her back, eyes screwed shut. Blood began to gather on the side of her mouth. Harry sat up and wiped her face. When she looked at her hand, she gave her father a dark look. "You son of a bitch," she murmured, dropping her hand and digging her nails in the floorboard. John scrambled to his feet and went towards her, but she had already changed. Harry fell on the floor as a Nord, but rose as a wolf, eyes ravenous and ears pulled back. John stared at her with wide eyes, and Sherlock had to yank at his arm to move before Harry leaped across the room at James.

The two wolves bit and tore at each other, blood and fur coating the floor. John watched in disbelief, and he dropped his sword. He turned his head and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock stared at him for a split second and nodded.

"Go."

John couldn't explain it. His skin boiled, prickled, and all of his hair rose. He threw his head back and cried out in pain. People didn't howl in anticipation, in excitement, when they changed into a wolf. They were in pain. All of his bones were being relocated, his skin was stretching, his muscles grew. It hurt, it hurt, oh, it hurt. John's mind was on one track: protect Harry. He turned his head around, his skull feeling heavy and his legs like a newborn deer. Sherlock and he met eyes, and Sherlock gave him a look he had never seen on the Breton's face before. He said nothing, and John ran off, meeting his father and sister in the fray. It was easy to fight when your body was crafted for it. His claws knew exactly where to slice, his teeth knew where to dig in, and his legs knew where to kick. Somehow during the fight, Harry had been pushed off to the side, next to Sherlock. She struggled to catch her breath as she watched John and James tear at each other.

Finally, John pinned James to the ground and growled in his face. John ripped out his father's throat.

It took a few minutes before John and Harry managed to shift back into their skin. He barely noticed the pain this time. He was still running off the adrenaline. Harry helped him stand. He couldn't take his eyes off his father. He was still a wolf, sprawled on his back. His throat was torn open, the dark liquid pooling underneath him. John grimaced and turned his head, looking over at Harry. He laughed. "You look like hell."

Her hair was half down and tangled. One of her cheeks was bruised, and she had several cuts across her arms and neck. Harry smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "You don't look much better, John." She raised her eyebrows and glanced down. John looked down, too, and noticed they were both in their smallclothes. Great. Sherlock walked up to the both of them, standing next to John. He cocked his head and reached out a hand, brushing his fingers along John's lips. He showed John his hand—coated with blood. John roughly swallowed and grimaced at the rusty taste.

"I didn't—"

"—I know," Sherlock said softly. He lowered his hand and looked down at James, a crinkle appearing on the bridge of his nose. "We need to go."

Harry didn't need to be told twice. She let go of John's arm and went around the cabin, grabbing her things and pulling on a dress she seemed to have conjured out of thin air. She didn't even give her father a second look as she left the house.

John, however, crouched next to the dead wolf. He stared at the thing, pursing his lips and feeling the dried blood crack. He absently wiped at his mouth and reached down, grabbing the talisman around his neck. John yanked, and the strap broke. "He still had this," he muttered. John ran his thumb along the hunk of Stalhrim, shaking his head. He stood up and shook his head. John looked around the cabin. He walked past Sherlock, whose eyes, John could feel, were glued to his back. He opened one of the dressers and pulled out one of the nicer tunics and trousers. He even found a pair of shoes next to the bed. So much for the steel armor. John stuck the Stalhrim into his pocket and went over to his sword. He picked it up and tried to shake the blood off.

Sherlock took a step towards him. "John," he started, but John turned back around, looking up at him.

He gave Sherlock a quick smile. "We should go," John said, and then he was out of the house.

Harry was outside, waiting for them to emerge. She stood a little straighter once John stopped in front of her. Offering a smile, she let out a small sigh. "Well, I feel like I can sleep for a hundred years." John leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. Harry shut her eyes and shook her head. "I'll stop the meetings," she said. "I've had enough surprise and heartbreak for a lifetime. I don't want to cause you to keel over any time soon." She laughed and pulled back, rubbing her face with the sleeve of her coat. "Get yourself cleaned up. Come home."

He wanted to come home. He wanted nothing more than to sit in front of the fire, curl up in his warm bed and sleep these past few days off. But he couldn't. John started to shake his head. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock. Sherlock was a few feet away, intently staring at the siblings. John looked back at Harry. "I have some things to do first," he said gently. "This isn't finished, I think. I still… feel bad." He frowned. "Do you know what I mean? Dirty, cursed. This isn't a blessing. I want to be cured."

"John, there probably isn't a cure."

"There has to be something. Just something to help suppress this."

"We've been good this far," Harry said, opening her arms a bit. "What makes you think that we'll start turning into wolves all willy-nilly?"

"I don't… I don't know, Harry. What Father said bothered me, though. I want to rid myself of this. I don't want to be anything like him." Harry looked at him for a long time before she lowered her head. She kicked at some snow. "Harry, we don't have to part ways here. Help me. We can get rid of this thing together."

Harry lifted her head and smiled. She shook her head, pressing her palm to John's cheek and scratching some of the blood off with her thumbnail. "I don't think I can make that trip with you, John. There isn't anything we can do. We're stuck like this." She dropped her hand. "The sooner you realize that, the better."

John shook her head. "We're not stuck. I'm not going to those damned Hunting Grounds when I die."

"We can get a choice," she added softly. "At least I think so." Harry crossed her arms over her chest and sniffed. She turned her head away and looked ahead. "I better get going, if I want to make it home before dark." She laughed.

"Stay safe," he said, frowning. John pulled her into a hug and pressed his lips to her hair. "No more meetings. I'll be home before you know it."

She stepped back, smiling again and nodding. "Okay."

"Harry." John and Harry turned their heads, watching as Sherlock walked towards them, stepping carefully through the snow. "You shouldn't be alone." He flicked out his hand at the empty air next to Harry, and, soon, purple mist began to gather. The mist took shape, and Redbeard bounded out of the cloud, tongue out and tail wagging. Sherlock crouched in front of the familiar and gave Redbeard a stern look. "You're to go with this woman and accompany her until she returns home, do you understand?" Redbeard cocked his head. "Do not come back to me for any reason, okay?" Redbeard barked and wagged his tail again. Sherlock looked up at Harry. "He understands."

She looked down at Redbeard and put her hands on her hips. "I'm not 'this woman', you got it? My name's Harry, alright? What's yours?"

Redbeard barked.

John smiled. "It's Redbeard."

Sherlock stood up and put his hands behind his back. "You be a good boy, Redbeard."

Harry and Redbeard made their way through the forest, seeming to have an in depth conversation as they walked. John watched, a small smile on his face. Sherlock stood next to him, still as a statue. Once they were gone, John let out a breath and raised a hand to cover his face. Sherlock rested a hand on his arm.

"You need to get cleaned up. I'll find someplace we can spend the night."

"Wait," John said, reaching up and gripping onto Sherlock's hand. He looked back at the house and grimaced. "We need to get rid of it."

Sherlock didn't hesitate setting the cabin on fire.

*

They found a small group of bandits holding up in another cabin not far from where they were. Sherlock peeked through the window and saw the three of them gathered around the table, playing cards. He looked over at John and nodded. John kicked open the door and marched in, waving his sword around and laughing loudly. "Feed! Feed! I need to feed again!"

The bandits shot up and ran as fast as they could out the door. John stayed inside, still laughing. He heard each bandit fall in the snow. John went to the doorway and poked his head out. Each bandit had an arrow through their head. Sherlock set his bow back in its place and walked through the door. He sniffed when he entered the cabin, stopping in the middle of the room. "At least they lit a fire." Sherlock dropped his bow and quiver on the table, along with his pack. He picked up a few cards, flipping through them. He glanced at John. "You really do look like a vampire. There's a stream nearby. Go wash up." Sherlock dropped the cards and turned towards the fire.

John stood there for a while, watching Sherlock as he surveyed the fire. He turned away and slipped out of the cabin. He kept his sword close, not knowing what he would encounter out in the woods. Besides, the damn thing needed to be cleaned anyway.

He found the stream, no problem, and John promptly shoved his head into the freezing water. He whipped his head out and cursed loudly. John lifted his arm and scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. "Gods Almighty," he breathed out. He was clean, though. That was all that mattered. John dunked his sword in the water, swished it around, and pulled it out. He ran his sleeve along the blade, then, washing the blood off of it, too. His father's blood. John had never killed a person, but in the span of four days, he had killed a Thalmor guard and his father. He didn't know what that meant for him. He tried not to think about it.

What he did think about was what his father said. None of it made sense. He couldn't be a werewolf. He wasn't like James Watson. He would never be like James Watson. At one point, like any young boy, he idolized his father, but not anymore. John was sick. He was sick. He wanted to be cured. Sherlock was going to help him. That's why he was still here. Any sane person would have already left.

Sherlock. What did he think about this whole mess? Did he know anything else about Hircine or Daedric Princes in general? His father had spoken with such disgust to Sherlock, said he had bad blood, but John didn't see anything wrong with him; he couldn't even smell anything off about him.

John didn't feel like talking.

He stood up and walked back to the cabin, sword at his side. Pushing the door open with a shoulder, John set his sword on the table, next to Sherlock's things. He turned his head, examining the cabin and everything it held. His eyes landed on Sherlock, who was currently lying in the middle of the bed. John studied him and pressed his lips together.

Sherlock lifted his head and squinted at John. "I can scoot over," he said, voice low. He glanced around and started to move to one side of the bed.

John walked towards the bed and crawled underneath the blankets. They were of good quality. He shuddered to think what happened to the people who lived here. John pressed in between Sherlock's legs and dipped his head down, kissing him. He stayed there for a couple seconds, taking in everything that was Sherlock. Sherlock lifted up an arm and wrapped it around John's neck, pulling him closer. One of his legs hooked around John's hip, helping him lower in the space he created.

They slowly turned, and John ran his hands down Sherlock's sides, fingers curling against the fur. He pulled back and buried his face in Sherlock's neck, biting at the skin. "Take that damned fur off."

"Yes," Sherlock breathed out. He pushed John away far enough in order to slip off his armor. He tossed it to the floor and returned his hands to John's chest.

"I'm tired of fur," John muttered, kissing Sherlock again.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed out. He lifted a hand and threaded his fingers through John's hair. The blond hair was still wet, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. John lowered his hands and began to work off his own clothes. Sherlock kissed at his collarbone.

John shut his eyes and breathed in. He moved, arching his back, pressing his hips against Sherlock's backside. Sherlock arched along with him, letting out a small gasp. His fingers left John's hair and traveled down his sides.

"I want to fuck you. Is that okay?"

"Yes."


	5. Chapter 5

The last time John woke up to a warm body beside him, it was in the dump of an inn that Dragon Bridge kept. He was with a Khajiit woman. The tail was what got him. The way it… swished from side to side as she stared at John, like he was a piece of meat and she was going to play with him. She always made sure to have a purr in her voice when she talked, and that made John all the more eager to get her into bed.

He didn't remember her name, but she had brown fur, almost like chocolate. She was gone when he woke up, and he felt like a fool when he saw a few gold coins on the side table. He wasn't a whore, but she made sure to treat him like one.

John often thought about her after that night. He even considered looking for her, though he realized that endeavor was better left incomplete. He didn't even know why he thought of her now. John had a new warm body next to him. Someone better than that Khajiit woman.

Sherlock wasn't asleep when John woke up. He was curled on his side, tucked underneath John's arm. His hand was on John's chest, fingers running through the hairs across his skin. He lightly scratched. "Morning," he said softly.

"Morning."

He stretched, letting his hand slide down John's chest. Sherlock turned his head and pressed his face in his armpit. "There's a stream, so there should be some fish."

"I'll catch some."

"I'll find some eggs."

"Breakfast fit for a king," John teased, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hair. Sherlock hummed. John took his arm back and rolled over in bed, carefully turning away from Sherlock. He hummed himself. "I had fun last night."

Sherlock flopped onto his stomach and propped himself up. He studied John and leaned in, resting his chin on John's shoulder. "I should hope so." John glanced over, narrowing his eyes. Sherlock smiled.

They laid there for a few more minutes, listening to each other breathe. Sherlock was the first to crawl out of bed. "I'll find some eggs," he reminded John, as he tried to find his smallclothes. John quickly sat up and lurched forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. He whipped him around, pushing Sherlock against the mattress again.

"Not right now."

Both laughing, Sherlock shoved John aside and climbed on his hips.

*

It took them two more tries before they managed to leave the cabin. The one to leave the bed next was John, reminding Sherlock about the fish, but Sherlock reminded John how well he could suck cock. John couldn't turn away from that.

Sherlock left the bed after, reminding John about the eggs, but John reminded Sherlock how well he could use his fingers. Sherlock managed to ignore him and pull on his clothes. John was defeated.

"Try to resist me next time," John said, as he looked through the wardrobe. He found a set of leather armor. "I dare you." He looked over, catching Sherlock's lips.

"No," Sherlock replied, grinning as he walked over to the table. He pulled his bow onto his back and slid the quiver into place. "If you're not back in twenty minutes, I'll assume you've fallen in, and will come rescue you." He stood by the door, narrowing his eyes at John.

John shot Sherlock a look right back. "Okay." He fixed the straps on his gauntlets. "If you're not back, I'll assume a gigantic bird found you, plucked your eyes out, and will come rescue you." John reached for his sword and slid it into the scabbard. "Alright?" He moved past Sherlock and stepped out of the cabin. Sherlock shook his head, a small smile on his lips, and shut the door behind them. They carefully walked around the dead bandits.

They parted ways once John made it to the stream. Sherlock dashed through the woods, looking all the more like a giant oaf as he pranced along. John wouldn't say anything to the Breton, though. It was his little show. He laughed and drew out his sword, readying his grip on it as he crouched in front of the stream. The water flowed slowly, but he saw some fish dart this and that way. Only a matter of time before John snagged one.

He tried not to think about his fishing lessons with Harry and his father. It was hard, though. His father was such a huge part of his life, and John wondered if he even knew who he was at all. Was that all just a façade he put up? Was he really so power hungry that he jeopardized his children's safety? Apparently, yes. No caring parents would ever toss their children in league with a Daedric Prince. That just wasn't right. Children couldn't think for themselves. They couldn't make good, rational decisions. John knew of mischievous children, willingly putting themselves in the dark arts and in harm's way, even calling in the aid of the Dark Brotherhood to get rid of a parent, but this… this was different. John and Harry couldn't even remember it. They went the majority of their life with this secret, this secret that was buried underneath their skin and floating in their blood.

All of his memories of his father were now tarnished. John wanted them all removed. Having no father was better than this. He was ashamed of all the nights he lay awake after receiving that letter from the Stormcloaks, hoping and wishing and praying to the Nine Divines that his father was somehow alive, that he would come home one day and whisk Harry and him home.

That was a load of shit now.

John was angry. He was angry at his mother, who grew weaker and weaker and didn't become strong enough to overcome her husband; angry at his father, who manipulated his mother and consumed her inch by inch until she was just an empty, numb shell; and angry at himself, allowing this ridiculous, idealized fantasy of his father to cloud his judgments and his dreams.

None of this was his or his mother's fault, though. It was his father's, and that was who John placed the blame. It might have been a stretch to blame Sirihe the Whitemane, since she was the one who gave his father this curse. Sirihe might have consorted with the Prince himself, but that was even a bigger stretch. Regardless, it was his father who made the decision to drastically alter his family's lives, not Sirihe.

John stabbed his sword into the water, watching the ripples move away from the point of entry. He pulled back the weapon and smiled at the fish he had caught. It was a good sized one. John removed the fish from the sword and looked back in the stream. One more fish. That would suffice.

He wanted to know what Sherlock thought about the whole thing. The Breton had said nothing of substance since they left the cabin. Frankly, he and John didn't do much talking anyway. Maybe when they ate, or when they began to travel, he would pick Sherlock's brain. Sherlock had bad blood, his father said. He had a rancid smell that was dripping off of him. He said he was surprised neither John nor Harry could smell it. Sherlock smelled absolutely fine to him, but what did he mean?

The first thing that came to mind was Sherlock being a mage. Certainly having magic in your blood was a bad thing to some people. There wasn't much intolerance for mages in the province, and many had an excellent environment when they went to study at the College, but the prejudice of some was still there. You couldn't help how people thought. John never took his father as being one of those people, especially considering how he devoted his life to a Daedric Prince, but John wouldn't be surprised if his previous conceptions about someone were wrong. He was tired of the lying and the secrets. Yesterday took a lot out of him.

Another fish was caught only minutes later, and John held them in his arms as he traveled back to the cabin. Sherlock was already back, frying a few eggs over the fire. John walked over to the sink and washed the fish, getting all the grim and snow off. "I was beginning to wonder if you really had fallen in," Sherlock said, turning around and placing the eggs on the two plates he had laid on the table. "I was about to send a search party." He slid over to John, who handed the fish over to him. "Excellent," he murmured, walking back to the fire.

John leaned against the basin, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Sherlock attempt to make the fish somewhat edible. He pursed his lips and looked down at the floor. "Yesterday…"

Sherlock shook his head. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I don't want to force you to relive unpleasant experiences." He looked over his shoulder. "Though if you want to discuss last night and this morning, then I would be happy to indulge." He smiled.

"Shut it," John breathed out, but he couldn't help but smile, too. He cleared his throat and gave Sherlock a look, but he had already turned back around. "Actually, I do want to talk about yesterday. I've been thinking, and… I want to know what you thought about the whole thing. I mean, you were there. Absurdly quiet, but still there." He shrugged. "You must have some thoughts about it."

It took a few minutes for Sherlock to say something. In the meantime, John listened to the fish fry and sizzle. "Your father is a very bad man," he started, turning away and walking back towards the table. He dropped a fish on each plate and moved towards the sink. Sherlock moved around John as he placed the pan into the wash basin. "He had bad intentions from the start, and certainly used your mother. Did he even want children? It's likely all of it was a power play, hoping to get some hold over her, while manipulating you and Harry. Nasty business."

John sighed and dragged himself over to the table. He planted himself into a chair and stretched out his legs. "I knew you were going to say something like that," he said quietly. John picked up a fork and poked at the fish. It smelled good.

Sherlock sat next to John and picked up his own utensil. He twirled it in between his fingers. "There's no arguing that he did do a good job taking care of you two. An odd way of going about it, but it was clear he loved his children. Still, it doesn't matter now. As you said before, your lives are ruined." Sherlock tore a piece of fish off and chewed. He looked at John. "It doesn't matter if he was a good father, then. All your memories of him are warped, destroyed, what have you. Nothing can be done to change them."

"I'm going to find a cure," John said carefully, bits of egg in his mouth. "Or something to prevent me from ever having the opportunity to turn into that damned beast. I don't care what Harry says. There has to be something. Even if it's just a wonky, useless talisman, it'll give me some comfort."

Sherlock pointed his fork at John. "It will be a false sense of comfort."

"A sense of comfort all the same," John replied. "That's better than feeling no comfort at all." He furrowed his brow. "At least to me." He stabbed at his fish.

"Where would we start?"

John glanced at Sherlock. "What, you don't have any idea?"

"Oh, I do. I wanted to know if you thought of anything."

He narrowed his eyes and looked down at his plate. "I have an idea, but I'm reluctant to say, or even go there."

Sherlock stretched out his leg and lightly nudged John's foot. "We have to go to Solstheim."

John sighed and lifted his free hand, rubbing at an eye. "Skaal Village, Solstheim. We might not find Sirihe, Gods know how old that bat was when my father met her, but maybe someone there might know something."

"Oh, I'm sure of it," Sherlock said. "Especially if the Bloodmoon Prophecy is going on right now. Werewolves and werebears and were-everything will be running amok. Children will be terrified." He smiled. "Solstheim is our best bet."

His fish looked back up at him. John glared at it and moved part of his egg over the fish's face. He looked over at Sherlock, watching him for a moment. "How much do you know about the Bloodmoon Prophecy?" he asked. "You don't seem all that… frightened."

"Should I be frightened?" he challenged.

John shrugged. "Everybody's different."

Sherlock studied him for a second before setting his fork on his plate. "When I first met you, I told you I have an enormous amount of knowledge, and in that knowledge contains some snippets about the Bloodmoon Prophecy. We'll go to Windhelm and catch a boat. There, we'll travel to Solstheim. I hope you don't get seasick."

Knowledge. His father had said that like a curse word. "Where did you learn all this stuff?"

"A book," Sherlock answered immediately.

John pounded his fist on the table. "Windhelm it is. I hope _you_ don't get seasick."

*

The sky was dark and gloomy by the time they left the cabin. John was reluctant to leave. It was a warm and safe place to stay. If there were any bandits that happened to cross, he and Sherlock would be able to deal with them, but they had things to do, and staying wasn't an option.

He stood there and waited for Sherlock to finish searching the place for anything they might have missed. John tilted his head to the side and watched Sherlock as he stuffed some fabric into his pack, a few potions. He caught John's eyes as he stepped outside and shut the door. "What?" He furrowed his brow and walked past him.

John shook his head. "Nothing." He followed Sherlock, keeping a hand on the hilt of his sword. The leather armor he now wore did little to help the cold, but it was lighter than the steel. Still, John missed it, and he was sure Sherlock paid quite a bit of gold for the set. But he had to go transform into a werewolf. Way to go, John. He glanced over at Sherlock. "I didn't know I was going to completely tear through the armor," he said. When Sherlock gave him a funny look, he sighed and shut his eyes. "You know… when I… went wolf."

Sherlock kept his lips pressed together for a moment, obviously trying to hold back a comment, a laugh, but his efforts proved futile. He laughed, throwing his head back and laughing some more. "Oh, John," he managed to say after a few seconds of laughter. He lifted a hand to wipe at an eye. "I don't care about the armor. I could always get you a better set. I just couldn't help but imagine you freezing your tits off in the mountains. It was an act of kindness. Don't worry about it."

Regardless of what Sherlock said, John did worry about it. He knew if Harry had spent all that gold on him, and he, basically, trashed the damn thing, Harry would be utterly pissed off. Might not even talk to him again. That was Harry, though, and this was Sherlock.

John wrapped his arms around himself and tried to get as compact and tiny as possible. The wind was starting to blow, and the cloudy skies weren't doing anything to help the temperature. It would only get colder. John wished he was back in Solitude, where it always managed to be sunny and warm.

They made it out of the woods and found the main road. Nobody was hunting for them this time around—not like they were in the first place—so John was glad they could use the main means of travel. It was safer and a lot quicker than trying to navigate through woods and tunnels. They passed a road sign at an intersection, and John tried to read it as they walked. Sherlock seemed to know where they were going and didn't pay any mind to the sign. They were heading to Winterhold, it seemed.

John pursed his lips and quickened his pace. Sherlock didn't stop for anything. "Winterhold?" John huffed out, bumping his shoulder into Sherlock's. "We're actually going there? What happened to Windhelm?" Sherlock gave him a glance from the corner of his eye. He shrugged. John slowly smiled, then. "Are you taking me to see your parents?" he asked, voice low. He nudged Sherlock. "Are you?"

Sherlock sighed loudly and ignored John's attempts at annoyance, though they seemed to be working. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders. "Yes. I have an… agreement with my mother. I'm to see her every few months so she knows I'm alive. A letter won't do, she says. Needs to be in person. And since we need to pass through Winterhold anyway, why not?" Sherlock looked over at him and frowned. "Please don't do anything embarrassing."

He scoffed. "Embarrassing? Never. I'm just wondering how your family's going to compete with mine." Sherlock managed to smile, then, and John laughed. If Harry was here, he was sure she would have swiped at him, but she wasn't, and John was glad.

"She used to be an adventurer, yeah? Your mother?" Sherlock absently nodded as he kept his eyes ahead at the road. They were approaching a group of Thalmor Justiciars with a prisoner. "Do you want to tell me a bit more about her? I think I've earned that—"

"—John," Sherlock spit out, and he quickly pulled out his bow, placing an arrow in the proper place, and fired, striking a Thalmor in the throat. They clutched their chest and fell to the ground. The other two Justiciars whipped around, and when they saw their fallen brother, they pulled out their own weapons. The prisoner's eyes grew wide, and he looked around frantically.

"Got it," John replied, easily unsheathing his sword and twisting around, meeting one of the Thalmor's swords. They swung at each other, sword striking sword, hit after hit. John stepped back from a close blow to the chest, and the Thalmor stumbled. He took his chance, then, and held his sword in two hands, bringing it up and stabbing it in the Altmer's neck. The elf let out a gurgle and fell face first on the path. He looked around and watched as Sherlock spun around and launched a spray of flames from his fingertips, essentially boiling the Justiciar alive in their armor. They screamed as well and dropped to their knees, hands going up and clutching at their face. John walked over and put the Thalmor out of their misery, with a quick cut to the throat.

The prisoner was all that remained, and he was currently hid behind a rock. John glanced over at Sherlock before slipping his sword in its sheath and walking over to the man. The prisoner fell back and tried to scramble away from John, or he tried to, but there was only so much you could do with your hands bound together. John reached out a hand and grabbed his arm. He squeezed. "There's nothing to be afraid of," he said. "We're the good guys." The prisoner stopped squirming, then, and stared at John for a moment. He then looked over at Sherlock. John drew out his dagger and leaned over, slicing the ropes around the man's wrists. "There you go." He stood up and put his dagger away. "You're free. Go home. Try not to get caught again."

"Oh, thank the Gods! Thank Talos!" He stood up and cupped John's shoulders. "My family will pray for you tonight. Oh, yes, we will!" The man hugged John, then, and looked over at Sherlock. He stretched out a hand and pointed. "And you! Thank you so much!" The man pushed John away and moved towards Sherlock. He grabbed one of his hands and shook it. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He kissed Sherlock's knuckles and turned away, walking down the road and seeming to not have a care in the world, not anymore.

John and Sherlock stood there, staring at the man as he walked further down the road. John looked over at Sherlock, examining him for a second before he placed his hands on his hips. "What was that about?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stared blankly at John. He blinked and turned away, continuing on their path. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know exactly what." He marched after Sherlock. "Attacking those Thalmor. We didn't have to do that, you know. We could have just… let them by."

"You would let them safely walk past us?"

John paused. "Yes."

Sherlock stared at him.

John shook his head. "That doesn't matter. You attacked first." He started to smile. "Don't tell me you're a big softie for the rebels."

"I'm not telling you that."

"Oh, I knew it!" John clapped his hands. "You just had that look. You can't stand seeing people oppressed, no matter the cause. Honestly, I wished your brother would have seen the light, as well. What the Empire does just isn't right."

"My brother is an opportunist. When something looks good for him, he goes for it, no matter the cost. I don't think he realizes what this war has done to people." Sherlock looked over at John. "He doesn't even listen to Mother or Father. It doesn't matter. He's helping Solitude's Jarl. Mycroft thinks that having that good of a position is an incredible feat." He turned back ahead. "Maybe he'll come around. He usually does when something happens to me."

John huffed out a laugh. "I hope you're not planning on getting yourself captured by the Thalmor, then. Or cause trouble with an Imperial regiment."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I'll let Ulfric Stormcloak convince Mycroft and the rest of the Empire otherwise. I'm just helping him however I can."

"So by killing Thalmor agents and releasing prisoners?"

"Exactly. A revolution doesn't start off with a bang, John. It starts with little actions that accumulate. The Empire won't fall in day."

"Ulfric tore apart the High King in a day."

"Now _that_ I would have liked to see." Sherlock sighed. "I'm jealous of Mycroft, in that aspect. He got to see the codger die."

John crossed his arms over his chest. "I could hear it," he started. "The Shout. It was… terrifying, but exciting. You should have seen the reaction in Dragon Bridge. Everybody just cheering and jumping around. It's almost like we already won the war." He looked over, watching Sherlock for a couple seconds. "What are you going to do after we finish this?" he asked quietly.

He expected Sherlock to make a snide comment about "going home after the war" but he knew what John meant. He always managed to know what John meant, on some level. "I'm not sure," he answered. "I don't fancy going home and living with Mum and Dad." His nose wrinkled. "If I stay in a five foot radius of Mycroft I might as well light the Blue Palace on fire myself, so." He paused. "I've no idea." Sherlock knitted his brows together and turned his head towards John. "What about you?"

John would go home to Solitude, of course. Live out the rest of his days with Harry, helping run the shop. "I've no idea either," he found himself saying. Sherlock's eyes lingered on him, but John didn't turn to look.

*

Sherlock's voice rang in John's ear, telling him time and time again that since the name was _Winter_ hold, of course it'll be _winter_ there. But John was, secretly, hoping that Winterhold might prove to be a little warmer than the woods. Nope. That wasn't the case at all.

As they stood on the main road, looking ahead at the city before them, John sighed noisily. He crossed his arms over his chest and swayed from side to side. "Don't get me wrong," John started. "I'm sure this place is nice, but I'm a bit tired of the cold." Sherlock shook his head and walked on, arms at his sides. John hurried along. "You're probably used to it," he mumbled, furrowing his brow.

"I am," Sherlock said simply, looking down at John. "That doesn't mean I'm not still affected by it. I want to be back in that nice, warm cabin as much as you."

John pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. "I never said that."

"You didn't need to," Sherlock said with a smile. "I could read it all in your face, your body language. You were practically begging for a reason to stay in that cabin for a little while longer."

John pursed his lips. "We can't stay in that cabin forever, because that would be impractical." He shot Sherlock a look. "And I have business in Solstheim, as you know."

"Solstheim and the Bloodmoon Prophecy. Should prove to be an exciting adventure." Sherlock slowed down and tipped his head back. He glanced at John for a split second before stretching out his arm and pointing at the large building ahead of them. "That is the College of Winterhold. I trained there, as well as many. It's quite lovely, actually."

The College looked like a huge tower, with several smaller towers tacked on next to it. A large bridge seemed to carry visitors there, and down below looked to be quite a fall. John narrowed his eyes in thought and looked back at Sherlock. "Didn't the College cause The Great Collapse? I heard that while I was growing up."

Sherlock huffed. "That's ridiculous. A massive storm caused the city to fall into the sea, not a College."

"What about all the magic holed up there? It's not a stretch to say that something like that could backfire and cause catastrophic events."

He rolled his eyes. "We didn't come to Winterhold so you could insult my birthplace and—"

"—yes, we came to see your Mummy and Daddy before we travel across the ocean. I remember."

"Good."

They walked until Sherlock led them to a cottage closer to the College. He paused outside the door and looked over his shoulder at John. "Do not mention The Great Collapse to either of my parents, or you'll surely regret it."

"Why? Do they have a lot to say about it?"

Sherlock didn't answer him. He turned back to face front and breathed in, standing there for a split second, before knocking. They didn't have to wait long. The door opened, and a short woman appeared in the doorway. She peered at Sherlock and studied him, stone-faced, until she grinned. John couldn't tell what Sherlock's expression was, but he assumed he had smiled, too, for his mother reached up and pulled him down into a hug.

"I was getting worried about you," she said. "You should send more letters."

"You don't want me to send letters."

"I never said that!" She pulled back from his hug and pointed a finger at him. "Don't go twisting my words, young man." Sherlock stepped aside, perhaps to avoid the next wave of possible chastisement, and revealed John behind him. His mother immediately lowered her hand and gave John a stare that reminded him all too well what Sherlock was capable of. "Who's this?"

John opened his mouth, ready to answer, but Sherlock was one beat faster. "This is my friend, John Watson."

"Friend?"

"Yes," John replied, nodding and taking a step forward. He held out his hand, which Sherlock's mother took. "Good to meet you."

She gave him another surveying look and tipped her head to the side. "Well, John Watson, what do you think of Winterhold?" she asked, giving him a stern look. She hadn't let go of his hand.

John blinked and furrowed his brow. He glanced at Sherlock, who was only giving him a smile. John looked back at the woman and started to shrug, but then decided against it. "Ah, it's very… cold. But it's lovely. If I had more aptitude for the sort of thing your son does, then I wouldn't mind going to the College."

He seemed to have said the right thing, since she laughed and let go of his hand. "Yes, yes, that's all good, and it is very cold, isn't it? Let's go inside and sit by the fire." Sherlock wasted no time at all and swiftly turned on his heel, marching inside. John waited for Sherlock's mother to go inside before he ducked in, too. He shut the door behind him and was instantly thankful of the warmth.

Sherlock pulled his bow off his back and looked around the cottage. "Where's dad?" he asked, setting the weapon on a rack above the fire. He laid his quiver next to the fireplace before falling into a chair.

His mother joined him at the table. "He's off visiting your brother," she began. "Mycroft said you were in Solitude just days ago. Didn't you see him?"

He started to shake his head. "No, I must have missed him. Come along, John. Sit with us. We have some time to spare, yes?"

John, feeling oddly out of place, had stayed by the front door. He flexed his fingers for a second and nodded. "Yeah, we're not… particularly busy." He walked across the room, towards the table, and sat in the chair between Sherlock and his mother. He didn't want it to seem like he was showing any favoritism.

"What have you been up to? Last time you came, you were doing a job for that one Redguard fellow. What was his name?" She tapped her fingers on the table, looking up at the ceiling. "I can't remember. What was it, dear?"

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. When he opened his eyes, he had them on a spot on the floor. "Victor," he said softly.

"Victor! Yes, that was it. What happened to him? You were telling me everything was going so well."

"He died," Sherlock replied, looking over at his mother. "I told you that."

"That was so long ago. How can I remember?"

Sherlock remained quiet after that, and John looked at him. He hadn't mentioned anybody by the name of Victor before. Should he bring it up? Was that proper? Did Sherlock sleep with him, too? John cleared his throat and turned his attention to Sherlock's mother. "Sherlock tells me you were an adventurer when you were younger. He even carries around your map. Those little anecdotes have been very helpful to us, so far."

She chuckled and shifted in her seat. "Sherlock told you that, did he? Well, I can't deny it now. Yes, I was a bit of an adventurer back in my more youthful years. When I met his father, I had to settle down. I miss it from time to time, but I can't exactly go up to Mount Anthor now and slay the dragon up there, can I?" She laughed again.

John didn't even know there was a dragon so close to the city. Maybe since it was left alone, it left other people alone. "What was your weapon of choice? I noticed you had a place above the mantle, where Sherlock put his bow. Was that always there?"

She smiled. "Very observant, aren't you? Or maybe you just noticed how old Sherlock's bow was. I favored the bow, yes, but unlike my son here, I never bothered to learn how to use my magicka. It was unnecessary. I was quick with my bow, and when I got into a sticky situation, I also carried around a mace. I have no idea what happened to it. Lost it in a cave somewhere. I remember looking for it all day once. I was on my hands and knees in ankle-deep water, pushing aside rocks and gunk, but it was no use. It must have drifted off somewhere. If I still had it, I would have passed it down to Mycroft, but my eldest doesn't seem to have the urge to draw any blood."

"Oh, he does," Sherlock said, propping his head up with a fist. His lips twitched. "It's with a quill, though."

John smiled, but Sherlock's mother didn't seem all that amused. "He is doing a very important job at the capital, Sherlock. I know you don't agree with what he's doing, but he has to make a living somehow… Even if it does involve helping the bloody Empire."

Sherlock and John caught eyes, then, and Sherlock seemed to be trying to pass a "don't you dare talk to my mom about the civil war" look, but seeing how Sherlock would react was too good to miss.

"Sherlock doesn't like to talk about the civil war," he started, turning his head to meet the woman's gaze. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but he didn't dare turn his head.

"Pish, Sherlock loves to bash the Empire and everything connected to it. Don't let him fool you." She looked over at Sherlock and narrowed her eyes, chastising her son for the second time in their visit. John wondered how much more he could be punished. He wouldn't get to find out.

"Mycroft's bedroom is still vacant, yes?" Sherlock asked as he stood up.

"Well, yes, but isn't it a little too—"

"—John and I have been walking all day, and we have a big trip ahead of us tomorrow. We're going to Windhelm, and then we'll be off to Solstheim."

His mother widened her eyes. "Solstheim? Why would you ever want to go there?"

John quickly thought up a lie. "My father recently died, and he was from Skaal Village. I'm going there to pay my respects, and Sherlock's helping me get there."

That seemed to appease the woman, and she nodded as she lifted a hand to run through her silver hair. "The world is a dangerous place. There's no doubting that. I know the dangers of traveling alone." She looked over at Sherlock and lowered her hand. "Yes, Mike's room is open. Everything's just the same as you left it in yours."

"Excellent."

She stood and walked over to Sherlock, giving him another hug. "All the dust and the grime remains."

"Oh, you shouldn't have."

John stood, too, and moved towards the stairs, glancing up them. He felt a hand on his arm, and at first he thought it was Sherlock, but it was his mother. She frowned at John and rubbed his shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He blinked at her, unable to speak for a moment. Thank you, he thought. Just say it. It was two simple words, but there was something about them. They felt false on his tongue. His father was dead, yes, but that wasn't the whole of it.

"Thank you," he finally said, voice sounding odd to his ear. He roughly swallowed and attempted a smile.

She might have thought the grief was taking over John, and that was why he was reacting strangely. She didn't know any better. "I'll leave you two boys to rest. I know how tired you must be." Sherlock gave John a single look right before he began his trek up the stairs. John obediently followed behind him. Sherlock's mother looked up the stairs, placing her hands on her hips. "Are you going to be here when I wake up?"

"Probably not."

She didn't bother to finish her thought. She waved her hands and turned away, disappearing from view. John reached the second floor landing, spotting Sherlock standing outside of a closed door, which could only have been his room. He glanced down the hall, at the other closed room, and shook his head. "I'm hoping your bed is large enough for the both of us," he muttered, walking over to Sherlock.

Sherlock hummed. "Oh, it is."

*

When he first entered Sherlock's bedroom, he didn't bother to give it much thought and surveillance. Sherlock did manage to light a candle, so they weren't stumbling around in the dark. After the both of them were breathing heavily, sprawled on their backs, and gazing up at the ceiling, John noticed how nice the little room was. He swallowed and glanced at Sherlock. "You grew up here," he said.

Sherlock nodded. "I grew up here."

They laid there in silence for minutes more, before Sherlock pushed himself up. He sat on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through his hair. He shut his eyes and sighed. "My mother can be a bit…" he trailed off, instead opting to gesture with his hand, as if that would complete his thought.

"Oh, yeah." John nodded. He turned over in bed, stretching out on his front. He shoved his hands underneath the pillow and stared at Sherlock, examining the fine hairs on his back. John wanted to reach over and touch the curve of his spine. He didn't. "Who's Victor?" he asked, burying his face in the pillow. John didn't move, but he felt Sherlock's eyes on him. The weight on the bed shifted, and John peeked, watching as Sherlock walked towards the wardrobe, opening it with a flourish.

"Typically, John, people pay me for helping them. I wouldn't necessarily call myself a mercenary, but I do kill people for money." Sherlock pulled out a shirt, a pair of thin trousers. "Victor was a wealthy Redguard who happened across me in a tavern, much like you." He grabbed his smallclothes and pulled them on, pausing for a second. "Although, you didn't much happened across me as I happened across you." He shook his head. "Regardless, we met, and he had a problem. He had heard of my talents from several people in the city, and thought I'd be best suited to sort out his problem. I was in Winterhold at the time, staying with my lovely parents." Sherlock pulled on the trousers and worked on the shirt, frowning at the sleeves. He pushed them up to the elbows.

John had lifted his head fully from the pillow and was watching Sherlock. His eyes dipped down to the sliver of chest Sherlock left exposed, enjoying the contrast of his pale skin and his dark hair. "Redguards? They're from Hammerfell, yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, moving back over to the bed. He sat down and bent over, tossing John his clothes. "Victor told me he had sailed to Skyrim for business related reasons with a friend and crossed paths with… well, magic, let's say." He turned his head, smiling at John as he watched him get dressed. He looked back at the floor. "He took me out of the tavern and to his ship. His friend, Sally, was there, and she had this great Irish wolfhound. She had her hands clasped around his muzzle, though I had an idea of why, I didn't ask. I waited for Victor to tell me. Besides, it was amusing to hear him say that the dog had been talking to him."

"Talking? That's madness," John said with a laugh. He leaned against the wall, stretching out his legs underneath the blanket.

Sherlock smiled and moved around, sitting fully on the bed and crossing his legs. "Madness," he murmured. He faced John and raised an eyebrow. "Can you really decide what madness is and what's not in this world, John? Look at you." He reached out and rubbed John's legs. "You're a manbeast."

John narrowed his eyes and pressed his foot against Sherlock's shin. He curled his toes. "Go on."

"Where was I? Oh, yes. The talking dog. He said his name was Barbas, and he had been separated from his master. He met good Victor and only wanted to find a way home, but Victor didn't know what to do. He asked Sally, and she didn't know either. They went around the province, trying to find anyone who would be up to the job of escorting Barbas back to his master, but when the possible individuals found out who his master was, they immediately declined the offer, no matter how much Victor offered."

"Who was his master?"

"Clavicus Vile, the Daedric Prince of Power, Trickery, Wishes, and Bargains."

"Daedra, Daedra, Daedra. I've heard enough about Daedra."

Sherlock hummed. "The world is full of them, John." He lowered his hand and took hold of John's foot. "Besides, they're interesting to deal with, and sometimes the rewards they offer aren't so bad."

John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "If this is your way of telling me we shouldn't go to Solstheim, it's too late. I've already decided."

"Oh." Sherlock blinked. "No, it wasn't." He cleared his throat and shook his head. "Anyway, Victor eventually met me, and I agreed to help. I didn't mind. Sally stayed on the ship, so Barbas, Victor, and I traveled to the shrine of Clavicus Vile." Catching John's blank look, he held out a hand. "If you want to speak with a Daedric Prince, you either go to their shrine or obtain an object of theirs."

"My father made blood offerings in the woods." He slipped his fingers through Sherlock's outstretched hand.

Sherlock curled his fingers. "Maybe the woods meant something to him."

"Maybe."

"As we traveled, I got to know Victor better. I wouldn't say we were the best of friends by the end of the trip, but I certainly knew _him_ a lot better, if you know what I mean." He smirked.

He expected that. "So, it wasn't love?" he asked, before he realized what he had said.

Sherlock's grip on John's hand tightened. "Love? Of course it wasn't love. It's dangerous to love in this world. Too many things can happen," he said quickly, staring at the blankets.

John passed his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. "Okay, sorry. Keep going. What happened when you got to the shrine?"

It took Sherlock a moment, but he did lift his head and met John's eyes again. "I summoned Clavicus Vile, and we spoke with him. He's this very disgusting man. Looks a bit like an imp. Just reminds you of the tricksters parents tell their children at night." He picked at one of John's nails. "We successfully returned Barbas to his master, and though he was a tad annoyed of seeing his dog back, he was thankful." Sherlock laughed. "That dog was very talkative, but I grew to like him."

"Everything went okay?" John furrowed his brow. "How did Victor die then? You made it seem like he died on the job."

Sherlock held up a finger and wagged it at John. "I haven't got to that part yet." He lowered his hand and placed it over their joined ones. "After Barbas, er, transformed into a statue again, you could say, Clavicus Vile told us exactly how Barbas came to Victor. This wasn't Victor's first trip to Skyrim. He had been one time before, and here, he went to the shrine we were at now, and asked for help. He needed money, he told Clavicus Vile. His family was struggling back in Hammerfell, and he would give his life if it meant for his family to get back on their feet."

"I don't like where this is going."

"Clavicus Vile loves helping mere mortals such as us. He also likes to watch us squirm and suffer. He helped dear Victor. He gave him the wealth he needed to go back home and help his family. Victor went back to Hammerfell in good spirits, and once home, his family did manage to get out of their slump. In fact, they became one of the wealthiest families in Hammerfell. No one exactly knows why. They just know it happened. A year or so later, Victor decided to travel back to Skyrim. It had been good to him once, why not again? He brought Sally along, only because, I assume, to show her how she could become as rich as he.

"The problem was, once they landed in the province, Barbas came to him and asked for help to return to his master. Victor had known who Barbas was. He seen the dog at the shrine, and he knew Clavicus Vile wanted him. Nothing good could come from it."

John huffed. "Daedric Princes," he mumbled underneath his breath.

"Victor made up a little story, feigned innocence, and sought help to go to the shrine. He thought if he didn't go alone, then maybe Clavicus Vile would be kinder. Oh, how wrong was he. The Prince of Power slit Victor's throat right then and there, blood spurting all over me, the snow, and the great shrine. As he was withering on the snow, the impish Prince sneered, 'you told me you'd give your life!', and then he disappeared. I was left to gather Victor up and find an appropriate spot to bury him."

"How did you feel? Did you know you were leading Victor to his death?"

Sherlock winced. "I knew of Clavicus Vile and how his nature was, but I never imagined this would have been the outcome. Some other punishment, sure, but not this. It was very dirty. I didn't feel bad. Victor was a passing thing. He wasn't going to take me away to Hammerfell. He knew it was just fun, too. Besides, he had a wife back home anyway."

John studied Sherlock for a moment and gave his hand one last squeeze before he pulled it back to scratch his chest. "Did your mother think there was something more between you two?"

"She thinks every boy I bring home is the one." He rolled his eyes. "I don't see why she thinks I need to settle down. She didn't until she was at least in her thirties." Sherlock tipped his head to the side and watched John. He ran his fingers down his arm, tracing circles into his wrist. "This story isn't one I particularly like to retell. I had done my job, though. I was paid to kill, and kill I did." He looked down. "I returned to the ship to tell Sally what happened. She wanted me off the ship, and she immediately sailed back to Hammerfell, I suspect. I haven't heard from her since."

"Where did you bury him?" John asked carefully.

Sherlock let go of John's hand and crawled around on the bed. He lay next to John, resting his head on his shoulder. "Get down," he whispered, helping John sink underneath the blankets. Sherlock curled up and reached for the blanket, pulling it closer to his chin. "Right outside the shrine," he answered, shutting his eyes. "With the other people Clavicus Vile had tricked. Victor didn't know it was a graveyard when we passed it, but I did. I didn't tell him."

John leaned over and blew out the candle.

*

Sherlock was true to his word, and they left before his mother had woken up. Windhelm was still hours away, and it was best they set off as soon as possible.

As they got closer to the city, more and more support for the rebels began to show. John felt more comfortable there than he ever did in Solitude.

They went down to the docks, and John asked some of the men about finding a passage to Solstheim. One man agreed to allow them on board, as he was delivering goods for the merchants there.

The space below deck was cramped, but it gave John the excuse to stay close to Sherlock. Not that he really needed an excuse anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

Everything depended on your mother, John learned. What you'll turn out to be was what your mother was. Growing up, John thought that was a load of nonsense, but now, he didn't really mind turning out like his mother. She was a kind, true Nord, who was filled with warmth and didn't stray from a challenge. Maybe he had idealized the wrong parent. Idealizing either of your parents was always a negative thing. They would always end up disappointing you. There was no joy in that. Besides, she had sold out her children to Hircine, too. It wasn't just his dad, though it was known he did manipulate her to do his bidding. John wished his mother had remained strong and was able to fight him off. Who knew what kind of situation he would be in now.

He probably wouldn't be on his way to Skaal Village, would he?

John had felt dirty ever since he talked to his father. He knew there was nothing wrong with his outward appearance, but that didn't prevent him from feeling like a putrid smell was hovering around him. John had heard the guards in Solitude joke about people who were affected with lycanthropy, and taunting about how hair grew out of their ears, how they smelled like wet dog. Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything about his smell, but John didn't know if he was just being kind, in fear of what John would do. Then again, Sherlock was pretty blunt. He had nothing to worry about.

The trip to Solstheim took several hours, and the last few moments of daylight greeted them when they ported at Raven Rock. John stumbled a bit once he walked on solid land, causing Sherlock to help him get steady. John waved Sherlock away and laughed. "I'm not some old man," he said.

Sherlock hummed, a smile playing on his lips. "No, of course you're not." He leaned over and pressed a kiss to John's forehead.

Raven Rock was small, and John was surprised to see it so populated by Dunmer. Sherlock must have noticed the expression on his face after they walked past another short elf. "Dark elves," he said quietly. "They evacuated from their homeland after a volcanic eruption destroyed it."

"I've never seen so many," John whispered. He looked up at Sherlock. "I know of a Dunmer group in Windhelm, but…" he trailed off. There was nothing to express his astonishment. Sherlock smiled again at John and rubbed at his back. "Let's get a room, and we can set off in the morning. I don't particularly fancy traveling during the night, do you?"

John snorted. "I don't even know my way around here. Did your mother make a record of the places here?"

"Sadly, no. Thankfully, I've been to Solstheim once before. I can manage to find Skaal Village. I sketched out a rough map. I'll show you once we're settled in."

The Retching Netch was the town's inn, and John wasn't interested in finding out how the place got that name. The dark elf at the counter didn't question Sherlock and John's presence on the island. He must have assumed they were beggars and other sellswords. "That's all we manage to attract here," the innkeep grumbled, handing Sherlock the key once they stopped in front of the room. "Enjoy. Don't trash the place up too bad," he added, turning away and heading back to the front counter.

Sherlock held the key in his hand, running his thumb over the notches in it. He gave John a look before he stepped inside.

They didn't have sex that night. Sherlock was more interested in curling around John and holding him as tightly as he could, not that John was upset about that. He liked being around Sherlock, no matter the circumstance. He held Sherlock with the same closeness he received and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"Why were you in Solstheim before?" he asked quietly. His voice sounded strange in the darkness.

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's collarbone. "It wasn't for business. It was for fun," he answered. "I heard about a house not too far from here where a Nord had died. I wanted to check out the scene."

"Was there something strange about it?"

"Murder is murder. I can show you the house tomorrow, if you'd like. And the boat where another man was. It was rather sad, when I found him."

"Why?"

"You can see for yourself tomorrow."

John laid there for a few moments, listening to Sherlock breathe. He dipped his head down to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, before he turned over in bed and pulled the blankets close to his chin. Sherlock scooted closer and wrapped his arms around John's middle, using his back as a makeshift pillow. That was completely fine.

He woke up the next morning alone. John shot up in bed and widened his eyes, looking around the room. There was no sign of a struggle. Sherlock's weapons and pack were still there, but where was the man himself? His question was answered in a matter of seconds, when Sherlock stepped into the room, a basket of rolls and cheese in his arms.

Sherlock carefully shut the door, narrowing his eyes at John. "I'm here," he said, walking over to John and sitting next to him on the bed. "I'm not going to leave."

John felt ridiculous, but he needed to hear that. He wouldn't tell Sherlock that. The Breton would know, though. He always knew. John reached out a hand and picked up a roll. He tore it apart and began to eat.

*

Sherlock's map of Solstheim wasn't much. It labeled Raven Rock as the capital, and he had included the murder house some miles away. Skaal Village was clear on the other side of the island, but Sherlock assured it would only take a few hours to get there. It wasn't like Skyrim, where traveling across the province would take days.

Along with these landmarks, Sherlock had also written where specific monuments were, the house of a powerful elven mage who he visited from time to time, and a few caves he stayed in during his time here. Sherlock also told him Solstheim was home to Ash Spawn, fire-based creatures that enjoyed using Destruction magic whenever possible.

"I lost half of my eyebrow when I looked at one of them the wrong way."

John glanced between Sherlock's eyes and his eyebrows. He laughed. "You did not."

"No, I didn't, but I nearly did. I stumbled on a whole group of them. I had my nose in a book. I didn't see them."

"Shouldn't have been reading out in the open. Too dangerous."

"Mhm, you wouldn't believe the half of it."

Staying true to his word, Sherlock lead John to the house before they set off for Skaal Village. This part of Solstheim was sandy and warm, but Sherlock told him they were stepping on ash rather than sand. "Ash Spawn, John."

"Oh, yes, of course."

The house was small and utterly destroyed. John stopped in front of it and gave Sherlock a look from the corner of his eye. "I thought the house would be, well, intact."

Sherlock smiled and walked past him. He entered the ruins and stopped next to a spot on the floor, pointing. "Trapdoor. Leads right to the safe place, where I assume the poor man perished. Did you want to take a peek? I have to warn you, though, it does smell rather nasty."

John instinctively wrinkled his nose. "No, thanks." Sherlock turned around and moved out of the house. He walked across the ashy ground and approached the coastline. John had no choice but to follow him. Sherlock stopped walking once he reached a boat, which was resting on the land. Another man lay a few feet away from the boat, slain as well. John tilted his head and frowned at the sight. "Bandits?" Sherlock shrugged.

He went towards the boat, then, looking inside and spotting a few gems, weapons, a bloodied helmet, a ring, and an amulet. The ring was underneath one of the oars, and John had to shove everything aside in order to reach it. He straightened up once he got it and held it in his palm. John squinted at the item, noticing that it was gold and had a diamond in the center. He turned his head and dipped down again, pulling the amulet out. Dangling it in front of him, John noticed that the amulet was one of Mara's, the goddess of love. He slowly lowered it and looked over at Sherlock. "What happened to these men?"

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, hands clasped behind his back. "The house over there belonged to a Nord named Hrodulf. He had a friend back in Solitude named Bjornolfr. The man here is Hrodulf." He pointed towards the Nord near them, face down in the dirt. "In his house, he discovered an old Dwemer tunnel underneath. There was this sort of equipment, which ultimately led to his obsession. Hrodulf lost his mind, and Bjornolfr knew it by the letters he was receiving. Bjornolfr made his way to Solstheim as soon as he could. What happened inside the house, when he met with Hrodulf, I don't know, but he died inside. Hrodulf, then, ran out here to this boat, and was killed."

"How?"

"This." Sherlock stepped over Hrodulf's body and nudged his foot against a Burnt Spriggan, the wood-like creature twisted and contorted in death. "It's sad to see how Hrodulf endured whatever drove him insane inside his house, just to be taken down so near his home. Maybe seeing his lover dead drove him madder."

John furrowed his brow. "Lover?" He looked down at the items he held in his hands: the ring and the Amulet of Mara. "Oh." John frowned. "Bjornolfr was going to propose to Hrodulf." He stared at Sherlock. "Why did you want me to see this?"

Sherlock walked over to John and stood in front of him. He lifted his hands and closed John's fingers around the ring he held. "Love is dangerous," Sherlock whispered, leaning forward until their foreheads pressed together. "But I know if I lost you, it would break my heart."

He could feel his heart beat faster. John didn't want to acknowledge what Sherlock was saying. He couldn't. It was dangerous, just like Sherlock said. He wet his lips and looked down at his hands. Taking a deep breath, John lifted the amulet and placed it over Sherlock's head. He let it fall naturally against his chest, before he worked on tucking it in his armor. He didn't want anyone to grab at it and choke him. John kept the ring, though. He pocketed it as a reminder. Not today, but later.

John lifted his hand and touched Sherlock's cheek. He leaned in and carefully kissed him, soft, sweet, and a little needy. They couldn't do much, not when they were standing out in the open like this. When he pulled back, he looked up at Sherlock with a small smile. John took a step back and cleared his throat. "That doesn't mean anything," he said, gesturing at the amulet Sherlock now wore. "Doesn't have to mean what it typically means. It helps with Restoration spells, too."

"Maybe you should be the one wearing it, then."

"That's hilarious, Sherlock. Truly."

*

After the side trip to Hrodulf's house, they were on their way to Skaal Village. The more they walked across the island, John noticed how the ash covered ground they were moving across were slowly disappearing. Snow was beginning to become more apparent, and John couldn't help but curse. He had thought they left all the snow behind in Skyrim, but you can never get rid of the snow. He didn't want to admit it, but he was looking forward to returning home. At least it was consistently sunny and warm.

Sherlock didn't seem to mind the cold, and, once again, John was envious. He tried to not make it show, but he knew Sherlock knew. He could tell just by the way Sherlock looked at him. The great git.

"I think it would be fairer if I had the fur armor."

"Not a chance. Besides, you have your own fur. You just neglect to use it."

John reached over and hit Sherlock's arm. The Breton recoiled and lifted a hand to protect his arm, as if John was liable to strike again. "What was that for?" John only glared.

Sherlock didn't have the same opinions over Daedric Princes like John did, but the way he spoke about John's… problem made it seem like John shouldn't be seeking to cure it. Instead, he should be embracing it. Learn to control it and use it to his advantage. When Sherlock told him the story about Clavicus Vile, he told John he wasn't trying to change his mind about accepting Hircine's bidding, but why else would he talk about how Daedric Princes' rewards could be beneficial? John didn't see anything beneficial about that, but Sherlock knew that, too.

They didn't encounter much trouble as they traveled to the Village. When they passed a particular landmark, Sherlock did ask if they could stop for a while and look around. He wanted to see if everything was still the same compared to the last time he was there. More often than not, they were, but it was still nice to see Sherlock's face light up when he examined a specific spot on a ruin or ran his fingers over a nick. He didn't know what the memories Sherlock was reliving were, and he didn't bother to ask.

When they got closer to their destination, John could feel his nerves start to climb. He expected to see savages, madmen who were exactly like his father. It was silly to assume that, but it was all he had at the moment. When he was a child, his father spoke of the Village he grew up in with high regard. John had even showed interest in traveling there one day. It was strange that John's childhood wish had come true. He only wished it was under different circumstances.

Would his father be remembered? What sort of legacy did James Watson leave behind when he traveled to Skyrim? As outsiders, would they even be welcomed? There were some tribes of people who turned away others regardless of intent or origin. These were all common worries.

The settlement grew closer, and as they entered, Sherlock and John weren't stopped or questioned. They were allowed to walk freely in and move along the other Skaal like they were already one of them. To be fair, the Nords of the Skaal looked much like the Nords of Skyrim. To strangers, they might be able to be grouped together with the Skaal, but to a native, there were subtle differences: the way they talked, the way they carried themselves, the clothes they wore, the Gods they worshipped.

"The shaman is the man we must speak to," Sherlock muttered in John's ear. "I'll find him. You stay here. Chat or something." He took a step back and turned away.

"Should I go with you?" John asked, but Sherlock was already walking through town, head down low. Sherlock had traveled to Solstheim before. Perhaps he already knew who the shaman was. It would have been easier to deal with him alone than drag John along.

John stayed by the fire, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't really feel like chatting with anybody. It was surreal to be here, finally. The Skaal seemed like normal Nords. Nothing particularly strange stuck out to him. Most of the Skaal must have been around when his father was growing up. Were they werewolves? Could the other Skaal smell how Hircine had affected his blood? Did he smell as filthy as he felt?

"Excuse me, young man, do you need something?" John turned his head and caught the eye of a woman with wild brown hair. She looked curiously at John, head cocked as if she was trying to get a read on him. John wasn't about to help her.

"Oh, no. I'm just waiting for my friend to come back. He's speaking with your shaman."

Her eyes grew wide. "Your friend knows Storn Crag-Strider?"

"If that's your shaman, then yes, I suppose."

She studied him for a moment. "You're different. I can smell it on you. Where do you hail?"

John shifted, pursing his lips. That didn't sound good. "Skyrim," he said. "Specifically Solitude. The capital."

"Skyrim, huh? I had friends that went there. One of them died." She narrowed her eyes, then. "Do you want to go back to my house? It's a lot warmer there, and we can talk more."

Red flags were obviously the images that were flashing in John's mind, but he ignored them. There was something about this woman. She had a crazed look in her eyes and a crooked smile to match. He glanced around, checking to see if Sherlock was anywhere nearby. When he saw the Breton nowhere, he faced the woman again. "Sure, let's go. Lead the way."

Her house was a small thing, but John suspected all the houses were small. Made everyone more humble or something. It was warmer inside, and the woman moved to sit next to the fire. She pointed at the chair next to her. "Come on. Nothing to be scared of."

John eyed her and sat down. He placed his hands on his lap, fingers curling and uncurling. If there was trouble, John was seconds away from grabbing his sword. "So, you've never been in Skyrim?"

"No, no. I never wanted to. There was an opportunity for me to go, but that was years ago. It was scary—traveling to a whole new place. And Skyrim's big, isn't it? Much bigger than this small island."

"It's a lot warmer, at least where I'm from. I don't know how you can handle the cold."

"You get used to it. Plus we have all this fur to keep us warm." She patted her chest, indicating the thick layer of fur armor she had on. John examined it. Compared to Sherlock's armor, it must have been made from a bigger wolf or at least one with a thicker fur.

"I don't think I like fur," John said absently.

"You get used to that, too." She smiled and gave him a look with those wide eyes.

John stared at her, and he found himself captivated by those eyes. This was a wild woman, a skilled hunter, he assumed. She had rough fingers, weathered by use of a bow. His father had them. John carefully stretched out a hand and took hers. He pulled it closer and examined the pads of her fingers. He roughly swallowed. "What's your name?" he asked.

The woman didn't seem to mind the examination she was going under. Maybe she knew John, like John knew who she was. "Ygfel," she answered.

"I'm John," he replied, letting go of her hand. "I'm James Watson's son."

Her eyes flashed, and her nostrils flared. "I figured. You look like him a bit, but you have a kinder face." She stretched out a hand and lightly touched his cheek. "James had a hard face. You knew you shouldn't mess with him. It would only end up badly."

John knew exactly what she meant. She lowered her hand and turned her head away. "My father told me about Trissen. What happened to him."

Ygfel rolled her eyes and sighed. "He was a fool. He expected me to follow him to the province, but I knew better. I tried to get James to come back home, but he wouldn't listen. Skyrim isn't the place for us, I told him." She stood up and moved over to the table, rustling through papers. "Your father and I have been sending letters to each other. He needed to come back here. Something big was coming." Ygfel raised her head and studied John. "Has he come with you? Has he told you?"

"The Bloodmoon Prophecy?" John turned in his chair and watched as Ygfel smiled and eagerly nodded. "He would never have known if it wasn't for you."

She shook her head. "That isn't true. It sings in our blood. I know how stubborn he can be, so I sent a letter. Made sure he knew it wasn't just in his head."

John huffed out a laugh. "Oh, he knew. I don't think he would have missed a chance to live through this."

"Really? Where is he?" Ygfel straightened up and walked over to John, who stood up. "It's already underway. The horkers have been washing up dead. And the Fire! James missed the Fire!"

"The horkers? My dad didn't say anything about horkers. Just… Hircine's Hounds and the Fire from the Eye of Glass."

Ygfel lifted her hands and clasped them in front of her mouth. "The horkers are the next part! Tide of Woe!" She licked her lips and rubbed her hands. "Oh, the other Skaal are so worried. They think the worst is coming. Well, they aren't wrong."

"How many of you are there?"

She lowered her hands and shrugged. "I'm not sure. Four? Five? When we meet, the number seems to be growing. Soon, I think, the whole Village will be full with Hircine's followers. Wonderful."

John felt his blood was boiling. "Wonderful?" he asked, voice low. "Do you know what my father did to me and my sister?"

Ygfel leaned in, tilting her head and burying her face in John's neck. He stiffened, and he shut his eyes. She smelled once, twice, three times and pulled away. She had the wild look in her eyes again, her pupils blown. "I could smell it the first time I looked at you." Ygfel took a step back, biting her lip. "Where's James? Did he come with you?"

He paused. At first, he didn't want to tell Ygfel. He wanted to hold that piece of information above her head. She didn't deserve to know. John reached into his pocket, though, and removed the Stalhrim his father wore around his neck. John tossed the hunk of rock at her feet. "I killed him."

At first Ygfel didn't react. She stared blankly at John, like she didn't understand what John was saying. After a moment, she blinked and shook her head. "No," she said. Ygfel looked and dropped to her knees. She picked up the Stalhrim with shaking hands and held it up to her face. She seemed to be close to tears as she pressed her lips to the stone. "What did you do with his body?" she muttered.

John gazed down at her. "I burned it."

Ygfel shut her eyes and held the Stalhrim in her palm, obscured from view. "He's at the Hunting Grounds now. May he find plentiful prey and have a prosperous hunt."

He couldn't explain it, but John lowered his hand to wrap around the hilt of his sword. He shut his eyes, tried to clear his head, and opened his eyes. "I think… I think I want to kill you now," he told Ygfel. John drew out his sword and held it at his side.

"The man I loved is dead, and now your father. The Bloodmoon Prophecy is here, and I have little to do except wait for Hircine's call. He is to tell us who the prey of the Great Hunt is."

John tightened his grip on his sword. "What are you talking about?"

"We don't know who we'll be hunting this era. The whole tribe might be prey, or just a single man." She lowered her hands, but still kept them enclosed around the rock. "We'll find out after the Bloodmoon. Can't you feel it in your blood? Him calling to you? It's irritable. It makes your blood boil until you can sink your teeth into something." Ygfel looked down at the floor and shook her head, her hair moving to reveal her pale neck.

He could do it. He could bring his sword down and slice the she-wolf's head off. "I don't feel anything," he said, voice sounding more strained than it should. John didn't want to think about it. How his skin prickled, how he felt uncomfortable in his own skin. He had assumed it was the knowledge of bearing this curse that made him so uncomfortable. Could it really be what Ygfel was describing? The yearning to shed this skin in favor of a greater one? To run and howl and tear into warm flesh? To hunt?

"No."

John and Ygfel raised their heads and turned towards the door. Sherlock was standing there, with his hand still on the doorknob. He flicked his narrowed eyes between the two and tightened his grip. "Leave her be. She's as good as dead."

He wrinkled his nose and looked down at Ygfel. She met John's gaze, and John noticed something in her eyes. A flicker of fear? He shook his head and looked down, sheathing his sword. "It was good to meet you, Ygfel," he said and then turned away, slipping past Sherlock and heading outside. A moment passed before Sherlock followed him out and shut the door behind him.

They kept quiet as they walked through the Village, passing Skaal after Skaal. John stopped walking once they passed a hunter selling his wares. He looked up at Sherlock with a raised brow. "I hope you didn't go house to house, trying to find me."

Sherlock smirked. "Of course not. I talked to the shaman. His name is Storn. He's aware of what's happening in Solstheim, and what's to come." He looked down at John, studying him for a moment. "Come on," he said quietly, reaching over and cupping John's arm. "Let's go out. Hunt or something. We can talk more."

John wasn't about to disagree. He followed Sherlock as he led them out of the Village and towards the woods. Sherlock had his bow out, holding it in a hand, but John didn't know if they would be doing much hunting. As a precaution, John pulled out his sword, too. "If Storn knows," he started, "then does he know how many of his people are werewolves?"

"Yes, he does. He keeps tabs. There's one or two of them that aren't as malicious as their siblings." Sherlock ducked underneath a branch. "They're like his spies, if you want to call them that."

"Does he know what the Bloodmoon Prophecy holds? Ygfel told me horkers were turning up dead along the coast." John glanced over. "Are we heading to the coast?"

Sherlock's answer was a nod. He held up his free hand and conjured a candlelight. He let the ball of light hover between him and John. "The Prophecy itself has five stages. You already know about most of them. The first is called Hounds, where werewolves start to appear on the island, in abundance. The second is Fire from the Eye of Glass, a pillar of fire that appears on the surface of Lake Fjalding. Ygfel told you about the third: Tide of Woe. It's a horker massacre, and the bodies wash up all along the northern coast. I doubt it's just coincidence. A horker or two dying now and again isn't suspicious, but once more manbeasts come to the island, much more than werewolves, then of course the complete massacre of a species will raise a few eyebrows."

"These are the Skaal," John said. "They're supposed to respect nature and everything the All-Maker gives them. Tearing the horkers apart like they were just a… a chew toy isn't showing any respect."

Sherlock tipped his head to the side. "Perhaps they don't follow the All-Maker anymore. Just Hircine."

John sighed. "What's the fourth stage?"

"Bloodmoon," Sherlock said simply. "You know the two moons? Secunda and Masser?" John slowly nodded, looking over at Sherlock. "Secunda turns red from the blood of the Hunter's Prey."

"Ygfel told me about the Great Hunt. Is that the last stage?"

"Hunter's Game. It varies from era to era. Storn said this game might involve the hunting of an entire tribe of people, or just a simple man. Either way, the Hunt ends, and Hircine returns to his realm for another era."

"That's what Ygfel said." John pressed his lips together and looked ahead. "So, Storn knows it's going to happen? And he's just going to… let it?"

"Essentially."

"That's utter shit." John lifted his arm and swung his sword down, striking a branch from a tree to the ground. He stopped walking and stared at it. Sherlock turned around and eyed John, the candlelight easily bobbing behind him. "Why doesn't he stop it?" John asked, waving his sword. "He has the chance to! He doesn't have to let his whole tribe be slaughtered just to appease this Daedric Prince!"

"He doesn't know if the prey is just going to a single man. It's easier to sacrifice one of your people, rather than sending a whole pack to try and deal with Hircine." John angrily shook his head and shoved his sword into its sheath. "It is nonsense, John, I agree, but people are reluctant to act. It's much easier to accept your fate than fight."

"I don't believe that," John said. "The rebellion started with actions like this, and look where it has gotten. All you have to do is try." He shut his eyes and hung his head. "What about a cure?"

Sherlock was silent. He looked down and kicked a rock.

"Sherlock…"

"There was a story of a cure being possible. Storn spoke of the Dragonborn helping the Companions in Skyrim. There was a section of the Companions, the Secret Circle, who consisted of warriors affected with lycanthropy, but their situation was different. Their affinity was cursed on them by the Glenmoril Witches, and to cure those individuals, the Dragonborn supposedly hunted down the Witches, chopped off their heads, and tossed them in this sacred fire."

"Then why can't I do that?" John protested, voice rising. "Why can't I lope off one of their damned heads and toss it into a fire?"

"John, the Dragonborn killed all of them. We don't know if there are any—"

"—so, there's no cure?" John smiled for a moment, shaking his head. He, then, held his head in his hands and took a deep breath. "Let's just find these horkers," he mumbled, turning away and walking ahead of Sherlock. He felt the candlelight follow him, the warmth radiating against his skin.

The leaves crushed, letting him know Sherlock had began to follow him again. "You can end this, John," he said softly. "Not completely, but it's possible." He caught up to John and wet his lips. "If you challenge Hircine when his Game is going on, and you defeat him… you'll be able to obtain his ring."

John rolled his shoulders and kept his eyes ahead. "What's so special about his bloody ring?"

"It won't get rid of your lycanthropy completely, but it'll help smother the symptoms. I know you've never had a problem with it before. You've changed, though. I've noticed. You seem… uncomfortable." John pursed his lips and said nothing. Sherlock went on, "The ring will stop any bloodlust that might be tempting you now. You'll still have the ability to transform into a wolf, though you'll have more control over it." He scanned John. "Isn't that one step below not having lycanthropy at all?"

Yes, it was. It was certainly better than nothing. He had hoped Sherlock wouldn't have noticed how his demeanor changed since leaving his father. Sherlock noticed everything. He was a fool to think otherwise. John stopped walking and looked over at Sherlock, watching him for a while. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against the side of Sherlock's neck. He breathed in, and was instantly reminded of Ygfel. John pulled back and cleared his throat. "I would like that," he said softly.

Sherlock carefully raised his hand and cupped the side of John's face. He turned his head to look at him. He gave John a gentle smile. "Also, a little extra incentive: if you manage to defeat Hircine, you defeat the Bloodmoon Prophecy."

"What? The Prophecy?" Sherlock nodded. John pressed his lips to Sherlock's fingers. "Why hasn't anyone tried to before? This terror could end."

"It only happens once an era. People forget." Sherlock leaned in and buried his nose in John's hair. "Besides, most don't think it wise to go head to head with a Daedric Prince." He laughed. "Especially Hircine. He's a natural hunter. You'd be a fool to challenge him."

John laughed, too. "I suppose we're fools, then," he said, resting a hand on Sherlock's side. He squeezed. John stepped back and turned around. He started walking again. "So, it's decided. When Hircine calls for… whatever, we're to go to him. And kill him. Is that right?"

"Not exactly kill him, but yes."

"We're mad." John lifted his hands to scrub at his face. "Absolutely mad. Almighty Talos, save us." Sherlock walked beside him and draped an arm over his shoulders.

The pair walked on. It was getting increasingly darker, but the candlelight Sherlock had created continued to float in front of them, guiding their way to the coast. Once there, John detached himself from Sherlock and walked on, seeing bodies upon bodies of horkers lying across the ice. John moved between aisles of the creatures, his blood running cold. This was a complete disaster. The ice looked black in the light, stained with blood.

John crouched down next to a horker and cocked his head. He reached out and lightly touched the animal. Freezing cold. John ran his hand up the horker's neck, stopping once he noticed bite marks. They were violent, torturous. John would never want to be damaged like this. He was lucky his father never took a great bite out of him or Harry.

"Werewolves," John said, standing up. He placed his hands on his hips and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock.

"And werebears," the mage added, from where he was crouched next to another horker, some feet away. "I have to say, these appear to be much more fearsome beasts, compared to their wolf counterparts." He stood with a sigh and glanced at John. "No offense."

"None taken." John looked back down and frowned. "I want to do something for them. We can't bury them. There's too many." He bit the inside of his cheek and kept quiet for a minute. John walked towards Sherlock, then. "We could say a prayer. To the All-Maker. I remember my father saying one whenever we took down a deer."

Sherlock stared at John and slowly began to nod. "I'm sure that would suffice. It's obvious these creatures weren't killed with honor."

And so they dropped to their knees on the ice and bowed their heads. Sherlock remained quiet as John spoke. He didn't know what was going through his head, and he didn't bother to find out. John needed to do this, not only to show respect to the mass of horkers, but to further separate himself from those beasts. He was nothing like them.

John felt a bit better when the prayer was finished, and Sherlock and he got to their feet. A small weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and that was more than he could ever ask for. He could go to sleep soundly, and when he woke up, he would be able to face whatever came to him. The Bloodmoon and the Hunter's Game. John didn't know how long each phase would last, and Sherlock didn't say so either. It didn't matter. He felt like he could sleep for a century.

"Look."

He stopped in his tracks and turned his head to look at Sherlock. The Breton was some odd feet away, and his head was tipped back, looking up at the sky. His expression was calculated. John slowly tilted his head towards the sky and immediately paled.

Secunda, the lesser of Nirn's two moons, was crimson.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock had told John they would go hunt when they left the Village, but they did nothing of the sort. The topic of hunting—the usual kind—didn't even cross John's mind, and after they saw the Bloodmoon right before their eyes, John didn't feel well enough to even think about killing and eating something.

They hurried back to the Village, and Sherlock lead the way, straight to the shaman. Many Skaal were outside, gazing up at the sky and gasping at the red moon. Some cried, dropping to their knees and tearing at their hair, their skin. Others consoled their tribe mates, trying to tell them the worst had already come and gone. John spotted Ygfel. She was in a small group, whispering. They looked gleeful. John's blood went ice cold.

"The worst is yet to come!" a young boy told his mother. "We'll be attacked soon! I just know it!" His mother shushed him and held him close to her chest.

Storn Crag-Strider was near his house, hands behind his back and looking up at the sky. His expression was unreadable. Sherlock stopped beside him, lips pressed together. He said nothing, only turning his head and looking up at the sky, too.

"It's blinding," Storn said, starting to frown. He lowered his head and glanced at Sherlock before resting his eyes on John. "This is him?"

John knew Sherlock and the shaman must have talked about him, in order to gain knowledge about the Bloodmoon Prophecy, but the thought of people talking about him behind his back, a stranger knowing much more about him than what he knew about the stranger, was a little unnerving. Still, John looked over at Sherlock before setting his eyes on Storn. "Yes, this is him." He tipped his chin up. "The... wolfman."

Sherlock snorted. Storn didn't look impressed. "My entire tribe might be massacred, and other innocent civilians on this island could be caught in the cross-fire. I don't find this very funny."

"Sorry, shaman. I wasn't thinking." John pressed his lips together and glanced at Sherlock: a mistake. The Breton looked like he was holding back laughter. John cleared his throat and worked on straightening up his posture.

"You don't seem to be like the others that live here," Storn said, cocking his head to the side. "Could that be because of your time spent in Skyrim? No, that can't be it. There are followers of Hircine even there." He studied John for a moment more. "Why would you wish to squash this affinity even more, when you have such a great control over it?"

"Do we have to talk about this here? Right now? In front of everyone?" John asked quickly, glancing around. Everyone seemed to be preoccupied with the Bloodmoon above their heads, but there was always a chance that someone could be overhearing their conversation. John didn't want that at all. He wanted this quiet.

Storn stared at John, as if he didn't hear what he had said and was expecting another answer. Soon, he shook his head and turned away. "Oh, yes, yes. I forgot Sherlock told me how uncomfortable you became. We can go back to my house." He started to walk ahead, leaving John to give Sherlock a proper glare. Sherlock only paled and whipped around, following the shaman into his house.

Like Ygfel's home, it was warm and small. Unlike Ygfel's home, John felt welcomed. There was a blonde woman sitting by the fire, book in her hands. Upon their appearance, she raised her head, eyes widening. "Father," she said and stood. She set the book behind her on her chair.

"Go outside, Frea. Comfort your people."

Frea frowned. "Is it what we feared?"

"I believe we'll know in a day or two."

She glanced at Sherlock and John, but said nothing. The Skaal hurried past, stopping by the door to grab two war axes, slipping them onto her waist with ease. John looked back at Storn. "Your daughter?"

Storn nodded. He walked over and picked up the book she was reading, setting it on the mantelpiece. "Come sit. My home is open to the both of you, for as long as your endeavor takes you."

John sat in the chair Frea had, and Sherlock took the chair opposite. Storn remained standing. "We won't stay long," John started. "As soon as Hunter's Game begins, we'll—"

"—I remember your father, John," Storn said, cutting John off. "He was curious, adventurous, and he got into quite a bit of trouble in his day." John pressed his lips together and dropped his gaze to the floor. "He and his friends believed he went through their days in this Village, as if their secret was hidden away from everyone here. But I knew. A great number of people knew. We let them go along in that little fantasy of theirs. They weren't harming anyone."

John lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at Storn. "They weren't harming anyone? You should have done something! You had no idea if they were infecting everybody with their curse! Children can't be trusted with that much power!"

Storn kept quiet for a while, almost like he wasn't expecting John's outburst. He looked down and straightened his posture. "As I'm sure Sherlock has told you, I wasn't idle. I kept track of all of their activity, monitored who they spent time with, where they went during the middle of the night, everything. They didn't infect anybody else, and they didn't tell anyone about meeting Sirihe. She's just an old legend to the children anyway. Most don't even bother searching for her, or when they find her, she doesn't bother showing herself to them. I believe it was the stubborn braveness of Ygfel that caused Sirihe to bestow them her… gift."

"Is she dead?" John asked, lifting a hand to rub his eyes.

"Oh, yes. She is dead. She died quite a few years ago. Frea found her, when she searched her shack. Sirihe did have a daughter, but no one knows where she is now. Last I've heard, she was in Skyrim, supposedly studying at the College of Winterhold and learning alchemy." John glanced over at Sherlock, who shrugged. Storn waved a hand. "Never mind any of that. The past is the past."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. "How much longer after the Bloodmoon does Hircine make himself present?"

Storn hummed, tipping his head this way and that. "It's hard to say. The records of previous Prophecies are shaky at best. It might be tomorrow or a few days, a few months."

"A few months?" John burst out. He couldn't stay here for _months_. That was ridiculous.

"Now, now, like I said, we don't exactly know." Storn wringed his hands in front of him. "Hircine is a great man, and we mustn't underestimate him. He might fetch his Hounds tonight and order the Game to begin."

Silence hung in the air, then. John didn't dare talk, in fear of a couple bad words might slip out. He worked on calming himself down, controlling his breath, and things of that nature. Sherlock scooted to the edge of his seat. "Well, I guess we're all just sitting ducks, hm? Just waiting for Hircine to make a move." Sherlock stood up, placing his hands behind his back. "It's like an absurd game of chess." He looked over at John and nodded towards the door. "Come on, John. Let's go."

John stood, and the pair moved towards the door. Storn, however, took a step forward. "You of all people, Sherlock, should know that you should not underestimate a Daedric Prince. No matter how they seem, none of them are as benevolent and unassuming as they appear to be."

Sherlock, who had his hand on the doorknob, lowered it and turned around. John didn't know what was going through Sherlock's head, but his eyes were wild, his nostrils flaring. If Sherlock was the one that sprouted coal black fur whenever he wanted, John would be cautious right now. Storn, however, didn't seem concerned, as Sherlock marched towards him. Sherlock stopped right in front of him and looked down at the elderly man. "I think we're done talking now," he said, voice low. It sounded like a threat. John wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it. Sherlock spun around after and returned back to the door. "Come on, John." He yanked on the door and held it open for John. "I'm sure we can find accommodations in the Greathall."

He had never been afraid of Sherlock. Not even when he had fire and lightning coming out of his fingertips, John had never felt fear. He knew Sherlock would never hurt him, so what was the point in that unnecessary fear? But the tone of his voice when he spoke to Storn… It caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, and he wasn't even the one the statement was towards. Storn and Sherlock must have developed a close relationship during Sherlock's first visit to the Village. Maybe Storn knew something about Sherlock that John didn't know? John wanted to ask, but he knew it would only cause trouble right now. Besides, Sherlock didn't look like he wanted to talk much. John didn't blame him.

The Greathall wasn't for random strangers to stay in. Sherlock, somehow, managed to speak to the owner, who allowed them to stay the night there. He was sure gold was involved, but Sherlock insisted it was just his charisma. John laughed in his face, and Sherlock laughed, too. They fell asleep next to the fire, under a table, and on top of an elk pelt. It was warm, but John didn't fancy snorting up the hairs very much. It was better than making camp somewhere outside, in the frigid night.

Screams pierced the air.

John snapped his eyes open and immediately woke up. He went to sit up, and he hit his head on the table. John fell back and held the top of his head. "Good gracious Talos," he muttered. Sherlock rolled out from under the table, ever alert, and had his bow in hand. John's second attempt at removing himself from the bed was successful, and he pulled out his sword, too. "What do you think is happening?" he asked. He tilted his head and breathed in.

Instantly, the wave of rancid breath, wet hair, and blood hit John's nose. He recoiled a bit and ducked his head down. It was like being struck over the head again. "Gods," he muttered. "It smells like a massacre outside."

Sherlock gave John a curious look before he moved towards the door, running low. He carefully opened it and peeked out. "I believe you're right, John," he said. "Someone's ordered the Hounds to strike." He shut the door just as another scream came. Sherlock pursed his lips and tapped his thumb against the bow. "How do you feel?" he asked.

John didn't know how he felt. He didn't give it much thought. There was too much going on outside. He could hear everything. The cries, the ripping of flesh, the sound of blood running onto the snow… John shook his head. "I don't know!"

"You have to stay calm, John. Keep your head. He has his hold on his pets outside, but he isn't going to take you, too." Sherlock whipped around and grabbed onto the door handle. "I'm going to help them. Stay in here." He slipped out of the Greathall, leaving the door to thud behind him.

He wasn't going to stay in here, while the trouble was out there. John wasn't like that. He wasn't the type of Nord to leave people in peril. He was the type to fight, to protect. To draw blood and rip and tear and kill and eat. John gripped his sword and charged to the door, tossing it aside and stepping out.

As John looked on, everything seemed to be going in slow motion. A Skaal flew past him, and John could smell the blood flowing in his veins and see every bead of sweat on his brow. He couldn't help it; he breathed in and looked around. More Skaal were fighting, hacking and slashing every which way they could. Werewolves were coming from every direction. There was at least a handful. Where did they come from?

He didn't care. He wanted to join them.

He should overcome it, but he couldn't. He couldn't. He wasn't strong enough.

He should have stayed inside the Greathall.

John let his sword slip from his fingers and drop onto the steps, walking ahead. In a matter of seconds, past the brain-splitting pain, he was someone new, reborn, and he felt like he could conquer the world.

Running through the Village, John looked each Skaal in the face and relished in the utter terror on their features. Mothers picked up their children and held them to their chest, dashing to the nearest safe zone. Fathers and other hunters had their spears and swords out, poking and prodding at any beast that passed them. A lucky few managed to strike the creatures. The unlucky were picked off easily—grabbed at the arm and ripped from their body, like they were putty.

An arrow whizzed past John's head, and he turned around. Several villagers had stationed themselves on the roofs of their houses. All of them had bows, and they were firing arrow after arrow. His brothers and sisters were wailing around him, getting hit, but they still pressed on, just enough to bite and tear into the nearest Skaal.

" _My hunters! Do not fear these mere mortals! They are simple! Weak! You are gifted! Tear them apart and show them what you're capable of! My Hunt is just beginning!_ " A deep, raspy voice rang out through John's skull, pounding behind his eyes. What in the name of Talos was that? Who was in his head? John snarled and bit at the air.

" _Fight! Feed! Hunt!_ "

John breathed in and shut his eyes. He listened and smelled and jumped in his spot. He was eager, ready to conquer—but the conquering wouldn't happen today.

He was hit, an arrow sliding into his left shoulder with ease. John yelped and threw his head back, howling. There was something different about this arrow. It wasn't just a simple steel-tipped arrow. They would push into the skin and sting, but this… this burned like fire. John felt as if he was being boiled alive. He had to leave. He had to flee, run away, go into the woods. Yes, that was good. That was very good.

John whimpered like the wounded animal he was, limping, half-dragging himself out of the chaotic Village. No one attacked him. Please, please, please, _please_. There was more fighting behind him. It sounded so close. John could hear the slicing of a sword right next to his ear.

Once he saw nothing around him but trees, John let himself fall face first into the snow. The cold powder could do nothing to quell the burning in his blood. Gods, he was going to die. He was going to die as a bloody werewolf. John whined and squirmed, kicking out his legs. The kicks turned into convulsions, and John sprawled out on his back. He twitched and shook and arched. His vision blurred, and his hearing weakened.

But at least he couldn't hear _that_ voice anymore.

Before he passed out, John reared his head around and clamped his teeth down on the arrow, yanking it out. He cried.

He woke up in a great library. Books were stacked to the, well, not the ceiling. There was no ceiling. The books stretched to the sickly green clouds. The clouds swirled, and John watched them. It would have made him ill if he didn't already feel nauseated. John tried to move, turn his head away from the sight, but he couldn't. He felt as if he was being weighed down by something. He didn't know what. John looked up at the sky and tried not to think about the burning pain in his shoulder. It was more violent now, as he didn't have the security provided by his wolf skin. He was only human now.

"Oh, Sherlock, my dear champion, it's good to see you again."

John slowly tipped his head to the side, pain shooting through his entire body. He wanted to whither in pain, but he was paralyzed. His vision began to blur again. The clouds started to swirl, run together. It looked a bit like an artist's palette, after they finished mixing various greens to get the perfect shade for grass. He started to shut his eyes.

"I'm not in the mood to play your little games."

Sherlock?

"That's such a shame to hear. I thought you just _thirsted_ for a visit."

"Shut up!"

John rolled his head to the side and struggled to keep his eyes open. Sherlock was here with him. The mage was looking through tome after tome, tossing them behind his back when he wasn't satisfied. John wanted to ask him so much: where were they; what was he doing; could he help?

Near the bookshelf Sherlock was currently searching through, there was a pool of water. Like the sky, it was also green. A long black tentacle crept out of the water and lashed towards Sherlock. He whirled around, jumping back, and carelessly tossed a ball of fire. The tentacle shrunk back into the water, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sky. "Leave me alone!"

The first voice laughed, cruel and deep. "He's going to die, Sherlock. Because of _you_."

"No, he isn't!" Sherlock tossed aside a book and grabbed another. He thumbed through the pages. "He isn't," he added in a whisper.

"Now, now, Sherlock. Don't be naïve." Sherlock quickly flipped through the book. "It was foolish to bring him here. What were you thinking?"

"I wanted to save him," Sherlock said simply. He snapped the volume shut and flung it behind him. John weakly turned his head, watching as the book flew through the sky. He blinked, and it was gone. He wanted to laugh, but he couldn't open his mouth.

"What are you going to tell him when he wakes?" the voice purred.

John shut his eyes, head lolling to the side. He felt someone crouch over top of him.

"Nothing he doesn't already know."

Another jolt of pain spiked through his body, causing him to shudder and gasp. When he opened his eyes, he was in a forest. John could freely move his body, but it still felt like a ton of bricks was resting on his chest. He sucked in a breath, and he felt his chest rattle.

"John!" Sherlock appeared at his side, eyes wide. "You're awake. Thank the Gods." He moved his hands across John. "You were out for some time. I was worried you wouldn't—" He stopped talking. Sherlock shook his head and let his hand hover over John's shoulder. The wound began to gently warm, and, in the light, John could tell Sherlock's fingers were bloody. His most likely.

He swallowed roughly and managed a smile. "'m not going to die," he said. "'m John." He lifted a hand, going to cup the side of Sherlock's face. He ended up smacking his arm. Bad coordination. John dropped his arm to the ground. "Sorry."

Sherlock pressed his hand closer to John's shoulder. "No, no, don't apologize." The warmth increased, but it did little. John still felt the poison running through him. He wasn't going to die. Sherlock shut his eyes and sighed. "Oh, John," he muttered, touching the side of his neck with his free hand. It was wet. Probably covered with blood, too.

"Sherlock—"

"—this is my entire fault," Sherlock interrupted, pulling his hand back to let it hover over his shoulder, too. Double the healing. John shifted uncomfortably, and he gasped again. Sherlock laid his palms flat against the wound, only making John wince even more. "That was my arrow. I saw you out there. I knew I had to do something, because when you came to, you would regret everything you had done. You didn't really want to hurt anybody. That was Hircine. He was in your head."

Hircine? Was that who he was hearing? John's head pounded. He squeezed his eyes and curled his toes. "Oh, _fuck_ ," he spat out, snapping his eyes open. Sherlock responded by pressing harder. That didn't help at all. Sherlock was going to end up drenching himself in blood, not that he wasn't already. "You don't, ah, have an antidote for your poison?" He smiled and looked over at Sherlock. In the moonlight, with tears in his eyes, he looked absolutely beautiful.

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look, blinking furiously. "No. No, I don't." He looked back down, continuing to shake his head. He pulled his hands away and leaned in, giving John's shoulder a sniff. He withdrew, nose wrinkled. "The only reason why I would use my bow was to kill. Why would I want to have an antidote?"

John laughed, looking up at the sky. The moon was still red. "What if you got a little prick? Oh wait!" He laughed even more, shutting his eyes. Oh, Talos, his head hurt.

"This isn't the time!" Sherlock said, reaching up and grabbing John's face. He squeezed his cheeks and stared at John, eyes wide and wild and frantic. "I'm not going to lose you," he murmured.

His body felt warm, starting from his head and going down to his toes. He just realized he had nothing on but his smallclothes. "'m not going to die," he repeated. John tried to lift his hand, slower this time so he wouldn't end up smacking Sherlock again. He attempted to grab his wrist, fingers not having enough strength in them. "Gimme your hand." John guided Sherlock's hand to his shoulder. "Start healing, you tit."

"John, I _can't_. I've done all I—"

"—start healing, you tit."

Sherlock huffed out a breath and stretched out his fingers, letting his palm hover over the wound again. He began to use the Restoration spell, but this time, John rested his hand on top of Sherlock's. He put all of his strength and focus into his own spell. He watched as the healing light grew brighter. John shut his eyes and pressed his cheek against the snow. "There we go, you big baby."

He felt instantly calmer, and his blood didn't feel like it was boiling underneath his skin anymore. John laid there in the snow, listening to his heart beat. It was getting stronger, going back to its regular tune. He opened his eyes after a few minutes and looked down. The wound still looked nasty, but it was all closed up. Once the blood was cleaned off, a great scar would be there.

"John…"

Slipping his head from Sherlock's grip, John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He pulled him down and pressed their foreheads together. "I love you," he rasped, kissing Sherlock's parted lips.

Tears were on John's cheeks. "I love you, too," Sherlock whispered against his lips.

Sometime after, John had fallen asleep again. He didn't know how long he was out, but when he woke it was nighttime. Or still nighttime. John turned over and lifted his hands to rub his eyes. He winced. His shoulder was still sore. John pushed himself up and worked on rolling his shoulder, stretching.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked. John looked over, studying the Breton by the campfire. It was snowing. John suddenly became aware of how silly he must look.

"Cold."

Sherlock smiled. He stood up and shook out his hand. Ice spikes spilled from his palm, dousing the fire with water. "There's a nice cave near here. I found it when I was looking for food." He walked over to John and helped him stand.

John still felt weak. He held onto Sherlock a little tighter than he would have preferred. "How long was I out?" They began to walk through the woods, leaving the Village behind them. "What about everyone else?"

"The attack was… about two days ago," Sherlock started. "You were touch and go for a while." He glanced at him. "We'll talk once we get someplace we can rest. Here." Sherlock stepped away from John, pulling the fur piece off of his shoulders. He draped it over John, instantly enclosing him in warmth.

"I'm tired of fur," John mumbled, shutting his eyes.

Sherlock wrapped his arm back around John's middle. "I know."

The nice cave Sherlock had said was, in fact, pretty nice. There were no unwanted creatures waiting to ambush them. They were safe for the time being. John sat down on a pile of leaves Sherlock had swept over. He watched as Sherlock worked on a fire. "Why aren't we going back to the Village? The whole place might be a bloodbath. We have to help."

"It was quite a bloodbath when I left." Sherlock held out his palm and shot out a stream of flames. The wood caught fire and blazed. Sherlock lowered his hand and looked over at John. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked quietly.

Of course he did. He didn't suddenly have memory loss. John looked down at the fire, watching the flames dance. "You shot me with an arrow. You didn't want me to hurt anybody." He looked back at him. "Thank you. I appreciate it. Really."

Sherlock watched him for a moment, lips pressed together and eyes narrowed. He looked back down and kicked at a rock. "I'll be right back," he said, and then he was out of the cave.

John wasn't lying about his appreciation. He was thankful he hadn't attacked any of the Skaal. He wanted to tear apart their flesh and take a big bite out of their muscles, but that wasn't him. They were innocent people. He didn't desire any of that. If only he could have controlled himself, and had taken a bite or two out of another werewolf. That would have helped. He was too wrapped up in the bloodlust, though. Hircine was in his head—not a comforting thought at all.

He turned his head and looked down, lifting a hand to gingerly move the piece of fur that covered his shoulder. John winced at the sight. It was still covered in blood, though most of it was dry. John scratched at his skin with his thumbnail. Blood flakes fell onto his legs. He brushed them away.

Had he really stayed in the woods for two days? He lay on the snow-covered ground and grew weaker and weaker. How long did the attack last? How long did it take for Sherlock to find him? When did he manage to shift back into a human? And where did Sherlock take him?

Or was it just a hallucination?

John was pretty out of it. It was possible he might have dreamt the whole thing. He was sure of two things: he loved Sherlock, and Sherlock loved him.

He stretched out on the stone floor, wrapped up in fur, and listened to the wind blow outside. Sherlock returned minutes later with a bucket. John lifted his head and gave him a look, one Sherlock merely returned. "We need to clean that," he said, nodding towards John. He was talking about his shoulder.

"Yes," John said, sitting up with a sigh. He tossed back the fur, showing Sherlock the bloody mess that was his shoulder. Sherlock didn't let anything show on his face as he sat next to John. He dropped the bucket beside him, and John peeked inside. Water. Just water.

Sherlock dipped his hand into the water and flicked some onto John's shoulder. It was cold, but that was expected in this area. He didn't want to shiver. There was only so much you could control. John watched as Sherlock washed away the blood. He had been right. There was a nasty scar imbedded in his skin. He was thankful the entire thing was sealed up.

"Ouch," John breathed out. He twisted a bit, letting Sherlock wash the entrance wound.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, a smile on his lips.

"Tell me what happened." John watched Sherlock, wetting his lips. "After I left."

Sherlock kept quiet. He finished cleaning the entrance wound and returned to the exit. He let his fingers trace along the scar. "I shot you, and you limped away. I wanted to go after you, but I knew that was irresponsible at the moment. I stayed until the wolves died or they retreated. Then, I stayed to help the Skaal clean up the mess the best they could. There's only so much you can do with blood-stained snow, though."

"Who all died?" John asked. "I know you wouldn't be able to tell who they were if they died as—"

"Ygfel is dead, John." Sherlock dipped his fingers back into the water, removing his hand to press them against John's lips. John licked up the water. "She didn't even get to shed her skin. There was an axe in her forehead." He smiled. "Right in between those pretty big eyes."

He didn't even have to be the one to wield the weapon. He had let Ygfel go unharmed, and she died anyway. He felt… glad. Everything that had tied his father to this damned curse was dead. His mother, Trissen, Ygfel, Sirihe, everyone but Hircine himself.

Hircine was going to be gone soon.

John watched Sherlock and raised his hand. He held the side of Sherlock's neck and leaned their foreheads together. "So, you left the Village after that. Found me in the woods."

"And tried to heal you." Sherlock finished, nodding. He gave him a small smile. "This amulet didn't do me any good," he said softly, patting his chest. John's eyes lowered and rested on the talisman. "I had to have help."

"I helped you," John reiterated. He nodded, too, and shut his eyes. "Thank you."

"I love you," Sherlock breathed out. He kissed John.

Sherlock didn't mention the library.

*

In the morning, they left the cave and made their way back to the Village. John was more clothed compared to his arrival. When Sherlock had gone off to hunt, he returned with a set of Nordic carved armor. He said he had killed someone who aimed at him first. It didn't matter to John. It was a fine set of armor.

He needed a bit of help in it, as his shoulder still wasn't up to par, and Sherlock was glad to help. He even gave in and slipped a helmet over John's head. "Big bear," Sherlock said, smirking. John lifted his hand and ran his fingers over the helmet. It was, indeed, shaped like a bear. He attempted a growl. Sherlock laughed.

Sherlock had even taken the liberty in retrieving John's sword. He pulled it off from his back and held it out for him. "Forgot to give this to you. Though, you weren't exactly in the state to have it." Regardless, John slipped it into his sheath, instantly feeling ten times better. "One more thing," Sherlock said, just as they were about to leave the cave. He dug into his pack and held out his hand, fingers closed into a fist. John looked down at his hand, eyebrow raised, and watched as Sherlock slowly uncurled his fingers. In the middle of his palm was the gold diamond ring from Hrodulf's house. John smiled and took the ring from Sherlock. He ran his thumb over the band.

"How did you manage to get this?"

He had shrugged. "It stuck out against the snow, and it was near your sword." John pocketed the ring with a grin. Sherlock turned and began to make his way out of the cave. "I have utter faith in you, John. Do try not to shift skins anytime soon. That armor looks quite good."

Skaal Village was quiet when they walked in. A few Skaal were going about their business, like nothing had happened days before, but there were a considerable amount of the usual crowd gone. They were either killed, or they were too afraid to leave their homes. John hoped it was the latter.

"Is Storn safe?" John asked, voice low, as Sherlock lead them to the shaman's house.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. He stayed in his house during the attack."

"And Frea?"

"She was the one who killed Ygfel," Sherlock said with a smile. "The she-wolf still had your father's little charm. Did you want it back?"

"No," John said flatly.

"I didn't think so. I burned it."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand as hard as he could.

Storn opened the door for them after the first knock, and they were invited into the warm house. He gave John a look as he passed, but waited to say something until everybody was seated. "Sherlock told me what happened. How is your wound?" He looked over John, trying to spot the wound on him, despite the armor covering him up.

"It's fine. Still a bit sore, but I'm going to live."

"Good, that's good." Storn shifted in his seat and turned his attention to Sherlock. "You healed him?" he asked.

"Both of us did," Sherlock answered, glancing over at John. "As much as I regret to admit it, I couldn't do it by myself." Storn gave Sherlock a curious look, and Sherlock stared at a spot on the wall. "Do you have any news? All seems quiet."

The Skaal shaman sighed and hung his head. "It is as Frea and I feared, as well as many others. We are the prey in the Great Hunt. Hircine showed himself late yesterday night and announced it. I suppose his Hounds are returning tonight to terrorize us once again."

John frowned. "Was there an attack yesterday?"

Storn nodded. "Yes, but there were only a few of them. Not as much as that first night. It seems like they aren't really trying. Charging in, killing a couple, and leaving. Perhaps they want to drag this Bloodmoon out for as long as possible."

"Who are his champions?" Sherlock asked, tipping his chin up.

Champions? John turned his head to meet Sherlock's gaze, but the Breton wouldn't look at him. He felt a shiver run down his spine.

"He called upon three: Clugrus the Frost Giant, Eorlir the Peacock, and Captain Yrsadreid of the Isles. They left this morning, and, I assume, are waiting to be challenged at Mortrag Glacier."

"That's where we need to go, then. John?" Sherlock knitted his brows together and lightly rested his hand on his arm. "John, did you hear that?"

John did hear, but his mind was leagues away. He was back in the library, lying in agony and listening to that disembodied voice purr and rasp and call Sherlock his champion.

_"Oh, Sherlock, my dear champion, it's good to see you again."_

Champion. Hircine had called upon his, and Sherlock was someone else's. A Daedric Prince's.

John lifted his head and looked over at Sherlock, eyes slowly narrowing. He pulled his arm back, though it hurt. He didn't let the pain show on his face. "Champion?" John said. "The weaklings who pledge their service to a Daedric Prince?"

Sherlock stared at John, confusion written on his features. "Yes? John, what's wrong?" He straightened up, and the expression on his face slipped away. He knew exactly what John was talking about.

"You," John breathed out. He stood up and curled his hands into fists at his sides. "You're one of them! You've been one this entire time!"

"John, to be fair, you have, too—"

"—shut up!" John stared at him, slowly shaking his head. "I trusted you! I let you in, and you deceived me! This entire time!" He looked at Storn, who seemed to find the entire spectacle amusing. "You knew?"

Storn glanced at Sherlock before he rested his eyes on John. "Yes, I knew. During his first stay at Solstheim, many years ago, Sherlock stumbled upon a Black Book. I don't know how he came to have it, but he opened it and was transported to Apocrypha… I believe Sherlock should be the one to tell you this."

John didn't want to look at Sherlock, but he knew he had to. He pursed his lips and looked down at Sherlock, who was looking straight ahead. "How did you get the Black Book?" He narrowed his eyes. "Why did you come to Solstheim?"

"I was curious. I was ambitious. Nothing satisfied me anymore. I came to Solstheim, because it was someplace new, and I learned about the power of a great Daedric Prince. I visited the Dunmer enchanter Neloth. He told me more about this power, and where I would be able to find a Black Book. Apocrypha is full of books, up to the brim with vast knowledge, and I… craved more. I would sit in that place for hours, reading as much as I could. I was allowed to gather as much forbidden knowledge as I liked, and in return, I served Hermaeus Mora. Well, I still do." Sherlock looked up, staring at John, then. "I'm still myself. I've always been this way. I haven't changed."

"You serve a bloody Daedric Prince, Sherlock! You don't think that would have been something that you should have told me? That's vital information."

Sherlock shook his head. "It wasn't a big deal. I didn't tell anyone I didn't have to, though people still knew, of course. Apparently, they can smell it on me."

Bad blood. His father had said that about Sherlock. Oh, John was such an idiot. He had thought it was about Sherlock being a mage. And his reputation… Victor…

"My father knew," John said, lifting his hands to rub his face. "And Victor. The talents he heard about had nothing to do with magic, right?"

"I have an enormous amount of knowledge."

John dropped his hands. _"Well, you're in luck. I have an enormous amount of knowledge, and I know where we're going."_ No, no. John clenched his jaw and looked at Sherlock. "How could you do this?"

Sherlock shut his eyes and placed his hands on his knees. "There is absolutely nothing to worry about. Hermaeus Mora does not have any hold on me. I am in complete control of my actions."

"You underestimate him, Sherlock. How many times do I have to tell you?" Storn said. "You can be required to do his bidding whenever he calls upon you, and the consequences if you don't comply will be dire."

"I am in control," Sherlock insisted.

John flexed his fingers. "Like I am?"

Sherlock met John's eyes. He watched the blue eyes pierce him. "That's different."

John rolled his eyes. He turned away. "Yeah, it's different. Whatever." John sucked in a breath and marched to the door. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

A chair scraped across the floor. "John—"

"—I said goodbye."

He pushed open Storn's door and stepped outside. John didn't bother to look behind him. He didn't want to. He couldn't believe Sherlock had deceived him from the very start. At any moment, Sherlock could have killed him, if Hermaeus Mora had called for it. Those black tentacles… That voice.

No, he couldn't do it. Not now.

Sherlock would be of no help to him. He didn't want anything to do with him. How could he do this? Did he care and respect John so little that he didn't even think about telling him what he really was?

Sherlock loved John, and John loved Sherlock, but he couldn't do this now. He had to get to Mortrag Glacier.

John was going to defeat Hircine, even if he had to do it alone.


	8. Chapter 8

Upon reflection, John was positive he was an idiot. He couldn't be an expert on Daedric Princes when the journey started, but he should have realized there was something up with Sherlock, besides the obvious fact he was a mage and a bit eccentric. None of that had mattered to John. He was just thankful for the company. Everything that had occurred to them and what Sherlock had told him could go back to the "I'm a mage" excuse. It was a good cover, though it still made John feel like an idiot.

He had a sweet smell that was in every one of them… Daedra be damned.

John wanted to hate Sherlock, but he couldn't. That was impossible. They had shared stories, meals, a bed, for Gods' sake. John had even given Sherlock an amulet of Mara. There was no going back from that. Marriage was a one-time thing. Once you stood in front of a priest of Mara, you were bound to that individual. Absolutely nothing could separate you, not even death.

Even if they hadn't taken that extra step, the implication was there, and no matter where Sherlock and John ended up, they each left their mark.

He wished to go back to Skaal Village, find Sherlock, and drag him back along—like nothing bad had ever occurred. That was never going to happen, though. Sherlock had to apologize. He was probably leagues away now. Off by himself or with Redbeard.

John hoped Harry made it home unscathed.

Resting when he could and scavenging as often as possible, John made it to Mortrag Glacier in a day. The walk was easy, simple, and John hated to admit it, but his strong sense of smell helped him navigate. The stench of wet fur could be overcoming.

It was a great frozen cave that greeted him. He was reluctant to walk across ice, but it seemed thick enough to withstand his body weight. John carefully walked inside, fingers wrapped around his sword, ready to strike and kill.

Silence. He didn't know what he was expecting. Maybe screams? Scrapes across the ice as werewolves ran about? As John walked further past the entrance, jags of ice and rock stood, leading to the ceiling. He moved past the wall and walked around. More walls were waiting for him, and he realized he was going through a maze. Now, that wasn't very reassuring. John flexed his fingers and breathed in. The smell that had lead him to the Glacier was still wafting through the maze's halls. John paused at an intersection, and after careful thought, he turned left.

The quiet was beginning to get to him. There was nothing in his head, nothing going around after him. John didn't feel safe at all. He walked a bit further and turned the corner. A man lay face down on the frozen ground, and John yanked out his sword. He held it in front of him, pointed towards the fallen man. When he realized the man wasn't moving at all, John lowered his sword. He looked around and saw nothing. John walked over to the man and slipped his sword back into its sheath. He crouched and pushed his fingers through the man's dirty blond hair. John pulled his head up and noticed the pool of blood underneath him.

He looked like an Imperial. His throat was slit, ear to ear. There was a staff some feet away. Perhaps he was taken by surprise, approached from the back. Either way, he didn't look to be much of a champion. John dropped the man's head and watched as he crumpled to the ground, back in his puddle of blood. His clothes were very flamboyant, feathers adorned on his jacket's shoulders. "Eorlir the Peacock," John murmured. He slowly stood and turned his head, looking down the corridor. He was going the right way—the smell was coaxing him forward. John gave Eorlir one last look before following the scent. He was thankful one champion was dead.

Two more were still alive: Clugrus the Frost Giant and Captain Yrsadreid of the Isles. He didn't fancying killing the Giant. Maybe he would get lucky once more.

Don't underestimate Hircine. He called upon these particular champions because they were worthy. They showed extraordinary strength and power. Not every one of them would be dead. Where would be the challenge in that?

Hircine. Hircine was the challenge. Don't underestimate The Huntsman of the Princes.

John kept a firm grip on his sword and turned down hallway after hallway. The maze was making his head hurt, but he had to go through. Hircine would be at the end, and, with that, his hope for a cure.

Snarling came down the right pathway, along with yelling and swords slicing through the air. John stopped in his tracks, staring down the hall. He was hesitant to charge down there, though he knew he would have to partake in the bloodshed sooner or later. He wished Sherlock was there. One against two didn't seem particularly fair.

He took a chance down the left hall, breathing in as deeply as he could. No, the smell was dying down this way. "Of course, John, what were you thinking?" he asked, turning around and marching down the correct pathway. As he got closer to the end, the sounds grew louder, and the smell grew stronger. His heart raced. He didn't have to shed his skin and transform into a manbeast to take care of trouble. John was good with a sword; he knew what to do.

The path lead to a great chamber, and inside, was the Frost Giant and the Captain. The Captain was on the Giant's shoulders, crossing her two swords and slashing the creature's throat. Blood spurted out like a fountain, and he fell. Yrsadreid came tumbling down along with him, but she managed to roll away to deflect a harsher fall. John slowly pulled out his own weapon and walked into the chamber, but neither of them seemed to be up to fighting. Captain Yrsadreid was on her knees, swords tossed haphazardly to the side. She seemed to be struggling to breathe.

John kept his sword out as he moved past Clugrus, noting the cut from ear to ear. It looked the same as Eorlir's. Why was Yrsadreid killing Hircine's champions? Wasn't she one herself?

"Don't you worry about ole Clugrus," the Redguard said, raising her head and looking at John. She smiled, trying to hide her wincing. "He'll be out for a while."

He found himself sheathing his sword. "A long while, it looks like," John replied, making his way over to her. He held out his hand, but she only shook her head.

"I'd rather stay down here." Yrsadreid twisted around, leaning against the maze wall. There was a wound in her side, her threadbare tunic stained with blood. Yrsadreid saw John looking, and she waved her hand. "Don't worry about that. I'll be up and out of here before you know it."

"You killed Eorlir."

"He was a tit."

"And Clugrus."

"He was an even bigger tit."

"Why?"

Yrsadreid lifted her head, staring at John with honey-colored eyes. She roughly swallowed before she smiled. "Are you going to face Hircine?"

John glanced down at his feet, shifting his weight on his other leg. "Yes."

"That's why." The Captain tipped her head back. "You have no idea how long I had that Prince wrapped around my finger. He honestly believed I was loyal." She started to laugh, but it was cut short with a wince. Yrsadreid held her side, eyes squeezed shut. "I was going to hack his head off myself, but good Clugrus here saw me kill Eorlir and figured out my plan. He chased me down, we fought, and, well, you know the rest." Yrsadreid pulled her hand back, shiny with blood. "Oh, balls," she breathed out.

"So, you were unwilling, too?" John crouched next to her. The Captain wearily looked at him. "You didn't want to be one of his creatures. You wanted to end him."

Yrsadreid smiled at John, studying his face and looking pointedly at his helmet. "That's right, you big bear. If it isn't too much trouble," she started, wetting her lips, "if you get out of this, send a letter to Hammerfell. Faeniath. Tell him how dashingly brave I was." She returned her hand to her side and breathed out. "Now hand me one of my swords." Yrsadreid stretched out her other arm, shaking. "A Captain needs to die by her own hand or not at all." She winked.

John left the chamber, just as steel clanged to the ground.

He had gotten lucky, he realized, as he walked deeper into the woods. He didn't have to raise his sword once, didn't even have to defend himself. At this point, John was beginning to feel antsy. All this pent up tension was growing, and he knew he would be slower with a sword, but he yearned to fight. He didn't think he would ever want that. A lot of things had changed.

Just like before, the cave was quiet again. John's breath was visible in front of his mouth, but he hadn't noticed the temperature drop. He must be getting closer. John lowered his hand to his sword again.

The way seemed to be straightforward now. The stench was stronger. Along with wet dog, blood and sweat came into the mix. Hircine was close, oh so close.

In the middle of the path, a cloud of purple mist gathered. John paused and immediately drew his sword, eyes narrowing. He had seen this sorcery before, in the mountains. It seemed to be a lifetime ago.

Redbeard came bounding towards him, tongue lolling as he got on his hind legs to greet John. John's face broke out into a smile, and he crouched, giving the familiar a good head scratch. "What are you doing here?" he asked quietly. "I take it that my sister made it home safe?" John heard footsteps behind him, but he didn't turn around. He knew who was there, and he didn't want it to seem as if he was too pleased with his return.

"Hello, Sherlock."

The wolf disappeared from under his touch, only leaving behind a trace of the purple mist. John pressed his lips together and slowly turned around. Sherlock was standing some feet away, looking as if no time had separated them. "John." He hung his arms at his sides, fingers wiggling. "I-I owe, ah, I owe you an apology." He took another step forward. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you the complete truth about myself. I knew everything about you after I saw you in that inn. It was unfair, and I know it was hurtful when you had to find out this way." Sherlock looked off to the side, biting his lip. "I will not do it again—withhold information."

John stayed still, standing there and looking at Sherlock. The apology was sound, and John was ready to forgive Sherlock. How could he not? This was Sherlock, and he would walk to the edge of Nirn for him. "I don't like deception, Sherlock," he began. "Or lying."

"I know. I'm an idiot for not telling you, and I cannot promise you will be safe if you stay with me."

"I can't promise the same either."

John and Sherlock stared at each other, then smiled.

"How did you find me?"

Sherlock hesitated. "I followed you." John turned away, huffing out a laugh. "As soon as you left Skaal Village, I was following you. I wasn't far behind at all." Sherlock laughed himself. "Have I mentioned I'm an idiot?"

"Yes," John said, pushing his sword back into its place. "Come here," he murmured, lifting his hands and pressing his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't hesitate this time. He rested his hands on John's arms, kissing him back again and again.

If they weren't standing in the middle of a frozen glacier, housed to dead bodies and a Daedric Prince, John wouldn't have minded taking Sherlock against a rock. But they had a task at hand, and the taking would have to wait until they were safe and sound. Whenever that would be.

John laid his palm flat against Sherlock's chest and pushed. "Okay, okay," he murmured, looking down and wetting his lips. "We have to stop."

"You're the one who kissed me," Sherlock said smugly. John shot him a look, but Sherlock smiled and glanced over his head. He nodded down the hall. "You were going the right way. Just through there."

He slowly turned, then, almost as if Sherlock was directing him. John placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, lips pressed together. He held his head a little higher. "So, Harry is safe."

"Yes."

John paused for a second. He looked down at the ground. "Did you know there was… something more to me?"

Sherlock took a step towards John, standing behind him. "I knew you were a spectacularly ordinary man, and you were going to get me in loads of trouble." He raised a hand and lightly touched the nape of his neck, the sliver of skin that was underneath his helmet. "However, if you want me to be honest, I had no idea saving your sister would lead to this." He dropped his hand.

This. Millions of things could mean "this", but John knew exactly what Sherlock meant. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, smiling up at Sherlock. "Me neither."

John set off walking, Sherlock right beside him. Right around the corner would be Hircine. There was no hiding that smell. It was stronger than ever before, and the strength made John all the more nauseated. He didn't know how Sherlock was managing to remain composed.

At the end of the corridor, John didn't hesitate in the turn. He was going to do this. No turning back now. The way was paved for him. The least he could do was make sure Yrsadreid didn't die in vain.

A clearing, much like the one he had left, was waiting. Unlike the clearing before, this one was a dead end. The end to the maze, and at its end, the Huntsman of the Princes.

Hircine was seated near the ice wall, on a throne of bones. It seemed to be crafted of animal bones, though the occasional human was like to slip in. The voice John heard in his head seemed to be a good match for this man. He was burly, thick-chested, and very large. John couldn't describe him any better. He was unable to see much of his facial features, as a stag's skull was covering his face. The antlers branched off like a magnificent tree. Through the eyeholes, a pair of dark eyes looked upon John and Sherlock. "Ah," the Prince said, voice booming and echoing off the cavern walls. He pushed himself off his throne, letting the skulls at his waist clink together and the mass of furs he adorned fall into place. "Is this my sole champion?" He examined John, head cocking. "I believed I called for quite a few, and none of them were you."

John shifted in his spot and glanced behind him at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't meet his eyes; he was glued to Hircine, eyes narrowed in concentration. John was left to his own devices. He looked back up at the Prince. "No, no you didn't." Good start, John. He shook his head. "I am, however, one of your—"

"—you do not have to tell me something I already know," Hircine interrupted. "I can smell it on you." He took a step forward, lifting a hand and pointing towards John. "Your blood was tainted by Sirihe the Whitemane." Hircine laughed. "She was one of my more faithful children."

"She has a daughter," Sherlock said.

Hircine snapped his head towards Sherlock, tipping his head in an almost feral manner. "Her daughter! She is a witch! More focused on alchemy and books rather than what she could have become!" His fingers twitched at his side. "And you. You reek of one of my brothers."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh and slipped his dagger from his waist. He twirled it in his hands. "I assure you, I kill nothing like him." His eyes flicked to a spot near the throne, and John followed his gaze: a spear rested against the throne, the point sharp enough to show its fatal strength.

A growl came from the beast Prince, and John drew out his own weapon. Hircine turned his attention to John, eyes widening at the sight of his sword. "All of your champions are dead, Hircine. One of your own betrayed you, slaughtering the others when they came upon her. May Yrsadreid of the Isles pass your dreadful Hunting Grounds and sail upon the Far Shores, where her worth is rewarded."

"That wench was worth nothing," Hircine spat out, twisting around to face his throne. The stag headdress didn't cover the back of Hircine's head, and a mess of brown hair was pulled back in a tangle of a bun. John glanced over at Sherlock, nodding slightly. The Breton lifted his free hand, fingertips sparking. "I'll tear her pretty head off and feed it to my children. Make a fool of me." Sherlock snapped his wrist, causing a bolt of lightning to strike Hircine on his shoulder. The Prince yelled, gripping his shoulder. He yanked on his spear and charged across the clearing.

John stumbled backwards, reaching over and pulling Sherlock behind him. He held out his sword, arm steady and shoulder not a bit sore. "That wasn't me," John said, and he immediately shut his eyes, shaking his head. Sherlock shoved his arm into John.

"Thanks, John," he muttered.

He opened his eyes and looked up. Hircine loomed over the pair, spear standing stick straight at his side. He glanced at John's sword, as if it were only a tooth pick and not something that could kill. "When you chanced upon this glacier, what did you expect to happen?" John's grip on the sword wavered for a moment, and he thought about lowering it. He raised it back up immediately. Hircine watched in amusement. "My champions were supposed to meet with me, and we were going to hunt that Village to extinction. Now, they are all dead, except for you." Hircine pushed away John's sword with his spear. "I am willing to forgive that little slight"—he tossed a look towards Sherlock—"if you will join me and my Hounds for the Hunt." His voice was soft, but the baritone rang in John's head.

John carefully lowered his sword, eyes on the Prince's covered face. Behind the mask, his pupils dilated. John tightened his grip on his weapon. "You'll let me come with you?" he asked, wetting his lips. "Allow me to hunt with you?" John ignored the heat that ran through his body. "With the great Hircine?"

The Prince seemed to relish in the attention. He placed the spear beside him and nodded. "Yes."

"And what of him?" John asked, nodding towards Sherlock, but not looking at him. He felt Sherlock's eyes burn the back of his head.

"I think you know what to do," Hircine murmured.

John didn't need to be told twice. He grinned. "Not a bloody chance," he laughed and jammed his sword towards him, striking the beast of a man in the abdomen. Hircine leapt back in surprise, and his hands flew to the sword. John only grunted and yanked up, tearing the sword out with a shower of blood. As Hircine clutched at his side, John wiped his cheek. "That was for everyone's lives you ruined. Now, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a step forward as John moved back. He had exchanged his dagger for his bow, and readied an arrow, firing one, two, in quick succession. They struck Hircine, one in the chest, the other opposite of his abdomen wound. Hircine stumbled back with each blow, growling and stabbing his spear into the ice to gather his bearings. "You—" Hircine growled, turning and whipping back around to strike Sherlock across the face with his spear. Sherlock shot back, landing on his side and rolling, his bow sliding across the ground.

"Shit," John hissed, running towards Hircine, sword raised. He brought it down, meeting Hircine's spear. He pulled back and swung again, Hircine and he seeming to do a sort of dance. John ducked underneath a would-be nasty blow from the spear, glancing over to see Sherlock pushing himself up. It looked as if the blunt end of the spear had caught his cheek, as a huge bruise was beginning to form. John looked back towards Hircine and stood up straight, slicing his sword across his torso while he was recovering from his swing.

"Ungrateful Nord," Hircine roared, lashing out his spear and striking John through the leg. John fell to the ground with a yell, losing his hold on the sword. He pressed his palms to the ground, fingers curling into the cold surface. The spear was still in his leg, and Hircine cackled. "This is how we make sure the prey doesn't get back up," he said, quickly twisting the spear. John squeezed his eyes shut and yelled again, leaning forward and pressing his face against the ground. He didn't want to get up. He much preferred the ground right now.

A wave of heat rippled above John, and he managed to open his eyes to see a blast of flames cloaking the Prince. He swatted it away like it was just a nuisance. John couldn't see much more through the tears. He tried to push himself back up again, which only resulted in another yelp.

Sherlock rushed over to him and grabbed the spear. "Sorry, John," he murmured and tore the spear right out of John's leg. Another yell sounded through the cave, and John arched off the ground.

"Oh, Talos," he said, voice shaking. John worked on getting back on his feet—he had to, he had to—and he managed, with Sherlock's help. Sherlock handed John the spear, letting him lean his weight on it.

"The bastard," Sherlock breathed out, and he spun around, flinging an ice shard at Hircine, a chord of lightning, anything to make the Prince go to his knees. Sherlock slid across the floor and kicked John's sword clear across the cave, out of any one's reach. Hircine snarled and shook his head from side to side.

John took one step forward, pain blasting through his leg and up through his torso, to his head. He sucked in a breath and held it, walking towards Hircine. His speed and strength increased with his step, and soon, he was standing in front of the fallen beast. John brandished the spear, breathing heavily, blinking away the tears of pain.

Hircine looked up at John and laughed. "Are you going to kill me with my own weapon?" John pursed his lips, seeing Sherlock move in his peripheral vision. He wanted to turn his head fully around, but that would be disastrous right now.

"Doesn't a good hunter take advantage of their resources?" John asked, sniffing.

That only raised another laugh from Hircine. He turned and looked over at Sherlock. John kept his eyes on the Daedric Prince. "What do you think you're doing?" he shouted. "Waving your hands around like a damned fool. Did my brother teach you that?" John's eyes traveled down the length of Hircine. Blood coated his skin, sticking to patches of hair. The arrows Sherlock had shot were still in him, and the wound to his abdomen was still bleeding steadily. The ground beneath them was bloody.

Sherlock chuckled himself, but he didn't give a vocal reply. John chanced it and turned his head, eyes widening. Someone was walking into the clearing, dragging themselves across the ground. Groaning came, and John was immediately reminded of a Draugr, but he didn't let the spear waver from Hircine. As the figure got closer, John noticed that it was Yrsadreid, a large blood stain on the front of her tunic, showing where she had taken her life. She stopped next to Sherlock, her swords in each hand.

Hircine began to move, lurching forward and grabbing onto John's leg. John gasped, but that was it. He forced himself to jump, and he landed on Hircine's back, pressing the shaft of the spear across Hircine's throat, tipping his head back. The Prince gurgled and clawed at John's face. John reared his head back to avoid the hits, the man's nails like talons.

Yrsadreid walked towards Hircine and John, all the light gone from her eyes. She was under Sherlock's control, now, but that didn't necessarily mean in life, she wouldn't have done the exact thing she was doing now. She twisted and turned, and slashed her swords across Hircine's throat, fashioning him with a red necklace like his champions.

The gurgles grew in volume, and blood pooled out of Hircine's mouth. He looked up at John with wide, desperate eyes. John spun off Hircine, moving in front of Yrsadreid. He adjusted his grip on the spear and swung it, knocking the headdress off him. The stag skull fell and shattered against the ground. A rugged, scarred face looked back at John, hands gripping at his throat.

John put all of his strength into his stab and stuck the spear through Hircine's throat. The Prince seemed to look at John in shock, the spear stabbed through his hands and his neck. John left it there for a second longer than necessary, though it didn't matter. He yanked it out all the same. Hircine fell on his side, eyes still open and haunting. He looked like a simple mortal. Besides his massive stature, he was the same as John. "Have fun in your Hunting Grounds," he said softly, holding out his hand. His sword was placed in it, and when John turned his head, he met Sherlock's gaze. Yrsadreid had fallen next to him, her duty finished.

No judgment was on Sherlock's face. He understood. He always understood John. John pressed his lips together and let the spear drop to the ground as he got a better grip on his sword. "Get his ring." John nodded towards Hircine's hands. As Sherlock ducked down to fetch the ring, John lifted his sword above his head and brought it down. It took a few tries to completely separate Hircine's head from his body, but when he did, John kicked it away.

He fell to the ground, hissing in pain, and watched as the Huntsman of the Princes' head spun around and stopped some odd feet away. John turned over and lay on his back, lifting his hands to remove his helmet. He tossed it aside and rubbed his face. He could feel blood smear across his cheeks.

It was over.

John began to laugh.


	9. Chapter 9

The throne came crashing down. Bones rolled across the ground, colliding with the owner's lopped off head. It spun with the added force, but hardly moved from its spot. The blank eyes met John's, and John laughed even more.

He lay on the ice-cold ground, shoulder throbbing and leg still bleeding. Across from him was Yrsadreid, her body still giving off the rotting smell that frequented the Draugr. Sherlock was in front of the collapsed throne, Hircine's spear in his hands. He turned around and looked towards John. "I'm going to burn it all," he said, voice steady.

John laughed again. He struggled to sit up, pain shooting through his leg. He rolled his head on his shoulder. "Yes," was all he said. John lifted a hand, putting all of his weight on his good arm. He let it hover over his wounded leg, the nasty stab right above his knee. Pressing his lips together, he wiggled his fingers, and, soon, his palm began to glow. John watched in fascination as the tear immediately began to heal itself: the skin stitching back together, the redness disappearing before his eyes. He had never seen a cut heal that fast before, especially one of that intensity.

_"Everyone wants to heal everyone else, and they forget to think about themselves first. You can't be an adept healer if you aren't taking care of yourself."_

He abruptly pulled his hand back when he was finished, keeping it close to his chest. John couldn't help but stare at his leg. He blinked several times before he pressed his hand back against the ground. He stood, then, and after the initial hesitation and a bit of muscle ache, John's leg was completely fine. He could walk without a problem.

Stopping beside Hircine's head, John found himself thanking the Daedric Prince.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, curiously studying John.

John looked up at him, eyebrows raised. He shrugged and smiled. "Actually, I've never felt better." He moved towards Sherlock, stretching out his hand. "The ring?" Sherlock handed over the item without any objection, smiling softly as John slipped it on. John flexed his fingers and turned his hand over, admiring the band. "Can't even feel it," he said.

"It's a part of you now," Sherlock replied. "How do you feel? Any…" He gestured loosely.

John dropped his hand and shook his head. "Nothing. I feel perfectly fine." He smiled again. "I feel like myself again, well, before I found out I was a bloodthirsty beast." Sherlock laughed, and John turned away, moving back to where he laid—the blood marking his resting place. John grabbed his sword, sliding it back into its sheath, and picked up his helmet, sliding that back on his head. He looked down, then, staring at Yrsadreid. Pursing his lips, John crouched and scooped up the Captain. He held her close and frowned. John lifted a hand to shut her eyes, the light long gone from those honey-colored beauties.

The spear was pressed against John's back. He glanced over to see Sherlock fastening the weapon to him. Sherlock only shook his head. "The Spear of the Hunter. It's yours now, John. You've earned it, along with Hircine's ring." He dropped his gaze to Yrsadreid, frowning slightly.

"She deserves to rest in Hammerfell," John said simply. "And Faeniath. I have to send him a letter."

Sherlock placed a hand on John's shoulder. He squeezed. "I heard."

John readjusted Yrsadreid in his hold, pulling her dangling arm back on her chest. "Burn him." He turned away and started to walk towards the exit. "I'll wait for you outside." John left before Sherlock could reply. He didn't need to. John heard crackling behind him, and the awful smell of flesh burning.

*

They arrived back to Skaal Village during the night, and John felt quite triumphant, emerging from the forest with a woman in his arms—though she _was_ dead—a spear on his back, and blood covered. Several of the Skaal looked on him with shock, ushering their children away. John didn't pay them any mind.

Sherlock walked ahead of John, moving towards Storn's house. They didn't make it far, for Storn came up behind them. "John," he said, and Sherlock and John turned around to face the shaman. Storn stumbled back, blinking at Yrsadreid. "Who is—?"

"—a friend," John interrupted. "What is it?"

It took a few seconds before Storn could pull his eyes from Yrsadreid. He cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. "The Bloodmoon is gone, and we saw smoke in the air," he explained, tossing a hand towards the sky. John tipped his head back and looked up at the moon. He smiled upon seeing the usual yellow glow. When he returned his attention back to Storn, his eyes were on John's spear. "It is safe to presume, then, that you were successful in your endeavor?"

John nodded, shutting his eyes. "Yes, Hircine is defeated." He opened his eyes and turned, staring at the Skaal who remained. "Hircine is defeated!" he repeated, voice louder. The Skaal immediately began to cheer, reaching over and grabbing each other, clutching their children, their loved ones, anyone who was near.

"The beast is slain!"

"We no longer have to live in fear!"

"The Nord and mage have saved us!"

He stood there, back straight, and looked on the celebrating Skaal. John looked over at Sherlock, seeing him also examining the scene, a hint of tears in his eyes. He didn't bother to wipe them away when he noticed John staring.

John turned back to Storn, dipping his head down so he could hear. "I need a ship and some parchment."

The shaman smiled and bowed. "We can certainly help."

*

Once on the ship, the captain took Yrsadreid from John, promising to deliver her and the letter to Faeniath in Hammerfell. John returned above deck, to find Sherlock watching the waves. He walked towards him and wrapped his arms around his waist. Sherlock instinctively leaned into John's touch, turning his head to press a kiss to his cheek. "We're going home," he murmured, voice so soft.

John looked up at Sherlock, eyes falling on the large bruise still on his cheek. He lifted his hand and carefully let his fingers hover over the discolored skin. Hand glowing, the bruise was gone within seconds. John lowered his hand, and Sherlock raised his. "You're getting quite good," he mused.

"Where is home?" John asked, looking towards the ocean, too. The weather was clear, the sun peeking through the clouds.

Sherlock was born and raised in Winterhold. John, in Dragon Bridge, but Solitude was where he lived. Sherlock had his parents in Winterhold and his brother in Solitude. John had Harry waiting for him in Solitude, at her apothecary shop, where she had stopped the secret meetings, for John's sake.

Before this ordeal, if someone had told John that his father was alive, and waiting for him to come, then John would have immediately set out to search. Now, he wouldn't have gone after him for anything. He didn't need his father. He had Harry, and, now, he had Sherlock.

Where you were raised or lived didn't define where home was.

Sherlock stared at John, eyes wide. He lowered his hand, taking John's in his own. Threading their fingers together, Sherlock brushed his lips to John's forehead. "With you."

*

Windhelm brought more celebration. In their absence, the civil war had ended. The rebellion was successful, and Ulfric Stormcloak was the new High King of Skyrim.

John and Sherlock followed the crowds to the Palace of the Kings, where Ulfric himself, along with a woman stood, celebrating, too. Their arms were linked, smiles on their faces.

According to the gossip, the Dragonborn helped Ulfric win the war, so Ulfric took her as his bride. It seemed to be a mutual decision, though.

They made one more stop before Solitude: Riften.

*

"It was Mara that first gave birth to all of creation and pledged to watch over us as her children. It is from her love of us that we first learned to love one another. It is from this love that we learn that a life lived alone is no life at all."

John tipped his chin up, pursing his lips. Sherlock looked at him, cheeks pink.

"We gather here today, under Mara's loving gaze, to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship. May they journey forth together in this life and the next, in prosperity and poverty, and in joy and hardship."

Sherlock chuckled, and John shot him a look, before laughing himself.

The priest turned to John, placing his hands in front of him. "Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?"

John looked at the priest for a second, and then looked over at Sherlock. He studied him for a moment and smiled. "I do. Now and forever."

"Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?" the priest asked, facing Sherlock now.

The mage, already pink in the face, seemed to be blushing even more. "I do. Now and forever."

"Under the authority of Mara, the Divine of Love, I declare this couple to be wed. I present the two of you with these matching rings, blessed by Mara's divine grace."

Each of them took a ring and slipped it on the other's finger. Sherlock and John met eyes, and John had to bite his lip to resist the urge to laugh again.

"May they protect each of you in your new life together."

Lifting his hands, John pushed Sherlock's robe off of his head. He cupped his face in his hands and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

*

"John, you loon!" Harry ran towards John, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a bone-breaking hug. She squeezed him, rocking them where they stood. "I was wondering when you were going to come back!"

"I'm here now, aren't I?" he said with a laugh. John spun them around, still hugging Harry. "We won, Harry," he whispered.

Harry shut her eyes and nodded into his neck. "I _know_." She pulled back and smiled at John, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. "Dad fought for this." She glanced over, noticing Sherlock was standing in the doorway. Harry looked at John, eyebrow raised. "Still carting him around?"

"Have to, don't I?" John eased himself from the hug and waved his hands. Harry's eyes fell to the rings on John's hands. First on Hircine's, and then…

Her eyes widened, and she smacked his cheek. "John!"

*

Weeks after John settled back into Solitude, he received a letter.

_Thank you._

_Faeniath_

*

A light breeze greeted John when he stepped outside. The city was bustling, children running through the streets, merchants shouting and selling their wares. He almost hated leaving Harry in the shop, but there were only so much blue mountain flowers he could crush, only so many healing potions he could make. Harry was in good hands, though. In his absence, she had acquired the help of a Bosmer alchemist named Annalise. The wood elf seemed interested in Harry's craft, and John only appeared as a burden whenever he stumbled into the shop to help. Still, Annalise allowed him to do menial tasks, since he was Harry's brother.

He traveled through the streets, the sun a welcome feeling on his skin. Ever since his travels, he never damned the sun or the heat. John knew all too well what it was like without any warmth.

It only took a few minutes of weaving in between people before he reached his home. It was a small manor, and he didn't like to admit how much he enjoyed living there while in Harry's presence. She only gave him a bitter look, but reminded him how much she and Annalise loved the shop.

John opened the door and moved into the kitchen, seeing Sherlock sitting at the table. He gave him a look, eyed the paper he was reading, and unhooked his scabbard. Draping it on the hook next to where Sherlock's bow rested, John walked over and checked the pot above the fire. "This better not be burned," he said, shaking his head as he stirred. Sherlock only hummed.

The spear above the hearth was a familiar comfort to John, as he straightened up after stirring. He studied it for a moment before turning and going towards the table. He sat next to Sherlock, hands clasped in front of him. "Harry says hi," he said softly.

"What of Annalise?" Sherlock asked, raising his head from his reading. "Still… bouncing about?"

John laughed, nodding. "Yes, still bouncing," he answered. He wet his lips and pointed a finger at the parchment. "Important?"

Sherlock slid the paper towards John to read, but John's gaze didn't waver from Sherlock's face. "It depends on what you think. I have been corresponding with the Dragonborn."

"The Dragonborn?" John's eyes widened. "How did you manage that?"

"She is a busy woman, I know, but I sent a letter, and she replied." He waved a hand. "Anyway, my initial letter was an inquiry about the Glenmoril Witches." Sherlock surveyed John, who had glanced down at the table, before continuing. "Unlike what we've heard, she has not found and beheaded all of them."

John slowly raised his head from the table. He stared at Sherlock, eyes narrowed. "So they could still be out there."

"Yes."

"At least one witch would serve." He paused. "How could this possibly be important and also not important?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the table. "We don't have to find them. You seem to be quite comfortable with the way things are now. Everything has been quiet on the Daedra spectrum on both ends." He tapped his temple. "But I know you still have thoughts, John. This is a way to put an end to them." Sherlock picked up the letter and folded it. "It's up to you. Myself, I'm quite comfortable in this quaint house of ours." He smiled.

John stared at the letter in Sherlock's hold, and then looked down at his own hands. He stretched out his fingers, eyeing the matrimony band on his left hand, Hircine's ring on the right. It seemed to be a part of his skin, now. He didn't want to know what it would be like to remove it. But Sherlock was right: he did still have thoughts. Mostly "what ifs", and Sherlock had often told him that the scenarios he created in his head didn't matter. The present was what mattered. The here, the now.

He sniffed and looked at Sherlock, examining him. Slowly, he smiled. "The stew's going to burn," he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed himself out of his chair. He went to the fireplace and took the pot off, moving towards the counter. John looked down at the letter and ran his hands down his face. Some questions were better left unanswered, or answered at another time, when he knew a lot more than he did today.


End file.
